Etched
by SPSmith
Summary: Agents Mulder and Scully investigate the loss of an oil derrick crew, and find more evidence of aliens than they can cope with.  AliensXF crossover.1995 First Place Spooky Awards: SciFi, Horror, ActionAdventure, and Most Carteresque Story
1. Chapter 1

Bone white against the oranges and purples of the setting sun, they stood tall, their skeletal fingers reaching skyward. The wind whistled through their open latticework, and they hummed in chorus when they, as one, bent forward to catch the ascending moon. The single line of cold radio telescopes continued their methodical task, the arm-like bowl of their antennae sweeping eastward, away from the noise source of the sun.

Sarah Greenbough stood outside one of the Quonset huts that processed the data brought in by the delicate receivers towering over her. She pulled her flannel vest around her as the wind tried to pull it away. Her long black hair was swept back from her face by those same cold desert winds. They came nightly, at sunset, and she with them. She knew she should be with the graduate team inside, but watching the sun fall each evening was her present to herself. It was compensation for being trapped, miles from anywhere.

"Sare! Hey, Sarah!" A tall man with course, ruddy features had stepped out of the hut and onto her plain, calling for her.

"Yeah, Gene?" She raised her voice over the power of the wind.

"We got a positive track, descending! Looks like an eagle is falling!" Gene tried to wave a sheet of printout, but the wind pressed it back against his hand.

Casting a quick look back at the last crescent of sun setting behind the distant mountains, Sarah ran to join Gene in the Hissing Room.

The Hissing Room was an inside joke, really. The main processing room for Radio Imagery was filled constantly with the low hiss of deep space radiation, and only the computers could decipher the noise. Besides that, the ventilation system rattled constantly, a noise everyone learned to ignore. The common joke, told to new workers from the University, was that occasionally the rattlesnakes got in, and everyone had to check to hear what _kind_ of hiss and rattle it was that they heard.

Now there were several people carrying coffee cups surrounding the monitor that displayed the radio images. It was easy to tell who here had tenure; they all carried their own personal coffee mugs. The grad students all used University mugs.

"Okay guys, what do you have?" To Sarah, these neat machines were only useful as a means to an end, and she hated staring at CRTs all day.

"Here and here." An older man with the beginnings of a paunch gestured at the screen in front of him. "It looks like part of a signal from an object in the high atmosphere. Track says it's doing thirty plus."

Sarah raised her dark eyebrows. The tracking station said it was traveling well above orbital velocity as it entered the atmosphere. That meant it was either a meteorite or a Defense bird. Her money was on Defense.

"Can you figure a landing site?" She grabbed her own mug, and poured some more coffee into it.

"Yeah, sure. Looks like Mexico, Florida, or the Gulf. Somewhere in that area. Hell," he laughed cynically, "maybe the DOD wants to drop a rock on Castro!" This elicited a round of laughs.

"All right, all right. Everybody back to work. The fun's over, boys and girls." As the group dispersed, Sarah snagged the rough sleeve of Gene's shirt. "Look, call this one in to Wright-Patterson. They may have dropped a satellite, and need to pick her up."

Gene nodded. And got the ball rolling.

Dana Scully entered the main office block of the J. Edgar Hoover Building without her briefcase. She'd forgotten it in her haste, and was trying to act like she hadn't forgotten a thing. She'd also overslept, and hoped no one noticed if her hair and makeup didn't seem right this morning. But as she passed the many Agents in the bullpen trying to look alert despite their red eyes, she felt a little better. She guessed this thing just happened when spring arrived.

She waved to the few people in the building she knew as she headed for the back corridors of the building. Descending a flight of stairs, she wound her way back to the storage closet she and Fox Mulder called an office. She paused before the dark brown door, reading the two names inscribed on plastic plaques there. Mentally gathering herself, she stepped inside.

Mulder had all the lights out, and a slide projector set up on her chair. He'd managed to remove his folders from his desk, and had the machine aimed at the space above his wall. He was straddling his own chair, facing her from across the room as he bit into an apple.

"Ooh, a presentation. And on a Monday. Mulder, I'm impressed," Scully said dryly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Did you wait long for me?"

"Not really." He took another bite out of the crisp Red Delicious and mumbled around the mouthful, "Ha' a good weekend?"

Scully flushed in the darkness, surprised that Mulder had provided her with cover. "Actually, yes. I got a lot accomplished in New York." Stirring her drink, she headed toward her corner of the room. As she walked past him, a small object dropped from her rumpled suit to the floor. It could barely be heard over the noise of the projector, and Dana unknowingly left it behind.

He swallowed his bite. "Sounds like fun. Wanna tell me about it?"

"What's to say. A bunch of doctors talking about corpses. Really fun way to spend a few days." She hoped she sounded convincing.

"Too bad. Your slip is showing." Without another word, he spun the chair back to the wall. A touch to the control wand advanced the slide machine to the first image.

It was the a series of neon green lines on a dark background.

"Let me guess. . . you taped a game of Pong, right?" Scully quipped as she checked her slip. Sure enough, it was slightly too long for her skirt. Quickly she started hiking it up.

"Close. It's from an E-C3 conducting maneuvers off the coast of Texas, in the Gulf of Mexico. And this line," he pointed to a bright track moving from west to east without looking back, "is the radar plot of an object that splashed down offshore."

Sighing, Dana perched on the edge of her desk, bumping into something warm. She looked down, and saw a large white Styrofoam cup, glowing slightly in the darkness. She guessed Mulder had left it on her desk, and sipped at it. The mocha was made the way she liked it.

"Scully, this picture's cute, too." Mulder seemed oblivious of her movements as he spoke.

Scully raised her eyebrows in the dark as Fox clicked the next slide into place. It was a detailed overhead photo of an orange and white building in the middle of a sea of blue water. Next to it sat a Coast Guard Cutter, dwarfed by the size of the construct.

"This satellite photo was taken as they arrived by a KH satellite DARPA handed over for USGS use. It shows Exxon oil rig number forty three. Six days ago, the five man team reported debris in the water, and sent a zodiac raft to check it out. Five days ago, they sent a call reporting a crewman ill, and an animal loose on the rig. That was their last radio contact.

The Coast Guard cutter, Prometheus, was dispatched at Exxon's request three days ago. You can see it alongside the rig."

"So let me guess. Something happened to the cutter." Scully turned quietly under the cover of darkness to pull a lipstick case out of her drawer, and apply some. While her back was turned, Mulder quickly scooped from the floor the item she had dropped. Then he smoothly advanced the projector to the next image.

The slide was quickly replaced by a second image. This one was from a lower angle, and showed the rig on fire, and no Coast Guard ship in view.

"A bit more than something I'm afraid." Mulder kept up his patter as though he were doing nothing while he identified the item she dropped. "This is a little over a day later. The captain reported gunfire on the main deck, and that he was being boarded."

"Boarded? Like pirates?" Scully drank some more mocha while Mulder finished off his apple and pitched the core into a trashcan.

"Well, I don't think they had eyepatches, Scully."

"What do you think?" Dana turned about to flick on the lights, and so wasn't watching Mulder when he pocketed the object.

"I don't know, but we're headed for the Gulf to find out." There was childish excitement in his voice as he spoke.

She turned back to look at him incredulously. Setting down her cup, she approached him, a line forming between her eyebrows.

"Do I really have to remind you of what happened the last time you booked us for a boat ride? Let the military handle this."

"They will. But they asked for us, this time around." Fox smiled at the subtle irony. "Your specialized knowledge of 'unknown biological hazards,' plus my own experience with 'recovered foreign objects' got us 'requested.'" Fox used his hands to shape the quotation marks. "Besides, if civilian crimes are committed, the Federal Bureau has jurisdiction."

"Wonderful. Is Big Brother throwing us to the sharks, or do we get any backup?" Dana gathered up the files Mulder had been working on, and tried to make some sense out of them.

"We get back-up, Scully. Tons of back-up." Mulder grimaced as he picked up his jacket. He slid his hand into his pocket, fingering the foil wrapped condom Scully had dropped when she walked into the office. Without another word, Fox walked past Dana, out the door.

Scully watched him leave, puzzled.

Blackhawk helicopters are insectile machines, large and threatening. The one beating its way across the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico differed in no essential way. It was low and oblate, with a thick tail sticking out well past the rotor. A pair of cantilevered wings thrust out over the side doors, each mounting a single oversized fuel tank. The nose of the craft held a tremendous spike for mid-air refueling, and a reflective ball for the night vision sight. With its tail, hunched shoulders and low, glittering nose it looked not so much like a machine as a monstrous insect.

Inside, Mulder was smiling like a kid as he watched the water slide by out one of the side windows. He turned to his partner, who barely managed a smile. Dana was profoundly airsick, but the sight of Fox peering about the cabin could still rouse her sense of humor. Fox was wearing a brilliant yellow life preserver, and a large green helmet, with bulbous ear protectors. With the four-point restraints locking him to the sea gray side of the helicopter, he was quite a sight.

"It's not fair, Dana!" Fox yelled over the tremendous noise from the rotor and engine.

Dana tapped the side of her helmet, pantomiming her hand back and forth. Fox shook his head, not understanding. He gestured with his hands but Scully didn't see him. She had to close her eyes, suddenly sick at the sight of Fox's shaking head.

The speakers in her helmet came to life with a crackle, and Scully heard Mulder's voice, flattened by the electronics. "Oh. The microphone. Sorry, I forgot."

Dana swallowed, and kept her head back against the padding behind her. "What is it, Mulder?"

"I was just saying it's not fair. The military gets all the cool toys, and we have to take Delta." His soft voice was almost swallowed by the sizzle and pop of the connection.

"Mulder, I'd really rather be on a jumbo jet right now." Dana continued to breath deeply through her mouth.

"Yeah, well a seven-forty-seven would have a hard time landing on a cruiser." He glanced briefly out the window, and then back to Scully. "Besides we'll be there in no time. I can see the _Elliot_ now."

"Great." Scully looked faintly green as the Blackhawk dropped sharply toward the foaming wake of the ship below them.

Dana refused to let go of her seat until after the sailors had tied down the helicopter to the Elliot's aft deck. But when she at last let go, she snapped off her release harness and scrambled past Mulder. She pulled the flight helmet off in a quick motion, and kept her head down until she was past the reach of the rotor blades. Once she was clear of the squat helicopter, she stood up, breathing the salty air deeply through her nose.

A moment later, Dana turned back toward the aft chopper deck, the wind whipping her hair about her face. Mulder was standing next to her, shaking a small green pill into his hand from a prescription bottle. He tried to ignore her as he dry swallowed it.

She remembered full well just how bad his seasickness was, and hoped that the scopolamine helped. "Why didn't you take that before we left shore?" She pushed her auburn hair away from her mouth as she spoke.

He didn't look away from the helicopter as he spoke. "I wanted to enjoy the chopper as much as you'll enjoy the boat."

She patted his arm sympathetically. The drugs would only take away the nausea, not the dizziness. She decided not to correct his use of the word 'boat;' from the hard cast to his hazel eyes, he wasn't in high spirits just now.

Mulder moved a step away from her, away from Dana's touch. She started to ask him about it when she was stopped abruptly by a bo'swain's whistle. Two officers in tan uniforms came through the aft causeway toward them, their faces stern. "Mulder, heads up. It's the welcoming party."

The two men stopped at regulation distance from the federal agents and assumed an 'at ease' stance that looked anything but relaxed. The man on the left was perhaps a hand span taller than Scully, and whipcord thin. His short sleeved tan uniform and open collar exposed skin so dark as to appear blue-black. The head under his blue ship's hat was completely bald, and his young face was stern.

His companion was as tall as Fox, and twice as wide. His thick chest and powerful arms seemed too big for his shirt, and his dark hair and beard were gray along the temples. But the blue eyes looking out from a nest of crow's feet were sharp and hard.

Suddenly, the black man's deep set eyes snapped right to focus on the agents.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, I presume." He barely waited for Dana's nod. "Excellent. I'm Commander Thurmann, the ship's XO. This is Lieutenant Dahburg. My men are stowing your gear forward with the rest of the team. If you will follow me."

The large ship rocked fore and aft, with sheets of spray arcing over the hull as mist. Despite the motion of the boat and the confused look on Scully's face, he and his officer turned about, and headed toward the portal they had come through moments before.

Fox looked over at Dana, smiling slightly. "Nice to meet the entertainment staff for this cruise."

When Mulder thought of a Captain's ready room, he thought of Star Trek. Mementos from prior commands, and hardbound books on shelves in a subdued room. A large desk and computer, situated in front of a window, and plush carpeting.

The reality was blindingly disappointing. Actually, the ceiling had pipes running across it fore and aft, and made Fox mildly claustrophobic. The walls were the same nondescript gray as the remainder of the ship, and the shelves held spiral-bound manuals. The desk was small, but tidy, and a Mr. Coffee was bolted to the blank wall behind it.

In place of a dignified Patrick Stewart, or energetic William Shatner, the Captain was a rotund man with faded brown hair and large glasses. The harsh lighting glinted off his bald spot and frames as they were ushered into the room, but he remained at his desk writing. He finished the page, and flipped it to the other side.

Commander Thurmann announced their arrival to the Captain before leaving. The hatch closed behind the two agents, leaving them standing in the middle of a pitching room out at sea, with a man who remained hunched over his desk.

Dana looked up at Mulder, hoping he would wait for this man to talk first. She knew he got along with the military like oil and water, but hoped he'd hold it together. She so much wanted for him not to make his usual poor first impression.

The Captain's pen scratched along the page for several more seconds. He stood, and looked back and forth between the two agents. Despite the Captain's unimpressive appearance, Mulder looked into his eyes, and felt as though he was being measured. He suddenly wished he was in his usual dark suit and tie. That kind of uniform would be comforting when faced with such a frank appraisal. As was, the man looked him up and down, from his Timberland boots and jeans, to his cotton shirt and leather jacket.

For a moment, he felt like he was twelve years old, facing his father once again.

Then his naturally ornery nature got the better of him, and he stared the man right in the eye. He'd be damned if some military jerk was going to keep him waiting, and then try to intimidate him. What he wanted was to bug this man. Badly. And Fox knew he'd be expecting some overt display. And so just to irk him, Mulder pushed, didn't look away. He just smiled knowingly.

The Captain smiled back. "Welcome to the _Elliot_, gentlemen. My name is Captain O'Byrn. I've been expecting you."

Mulder relaxed somewhat. "Thank you. Well, now that we're stuck out at sea, would you like to tell us what you know?" Dana let out her breath. That wasn't as bad as she'd feared.

"Son, I'm the one who requested your presence." Mulder hated being called 'son.' "You already know about the disappearance of the CGC _Prometheus_, and that contact has been lost with Rig forty-three."

"Yes sir, we know about those incidents," Scully politely replied.

"At present we do not know what happened at either location. Our search will begin at the rig, and expand outward. There is the possibility of terrorist involvement. As that the incident occurred within US territorial waters, any criminal activities are yours to investigate. The Navy is simply aiding in such an investigation."

Mulder had to interrupt. "Does this mean that you think terrorists are responsible for the object that de-orbited near Rig forty three?" He was daring the older man to answer.

O'Byrn leaned over his desk top. "I do not want you repeating that aboard my ship, mister. And I sure as hell will not ask where you picked up that piece of data. Am I being heard loud and clear?"

"Perfectly," Dana answered for Mulder. "What my partner was asking was the reason for our being here. Other agents would be better suited for anti-terrorist work."

O'Byrn sat down, and took off his glasses. He had brilliant green eyes, but for a moment, they seemed very tired. "I'm getting the run around from my superiors. My ship was pulled into dock, and stripped to a skeleton crew before we were sent out on this assignment. I placed my call to Director Skinner before the flash printer cooled. Agent Mulder, I got a look at the same data you did. Only my superiors did not send it to me. A friend did."

"Somehow, I don't like the sound of this." Mulder leaned against the bulkhead next to the hatch. The ship's motion was beginning to upset his stomach.

"I don't like the sound of it either. Hell, when I asked my C-in-C about it, he said a Soviet communication satellite burned up. At the same time, he placed a SEAL team on board, and set us up with USAMRIID for biowarfare gear."

Scully and Fox exchanged knowing looks. This conversation had entered Dana's area of expertise, and so she took over.

"Do you think there is a possible biological contamination in the area, Captain?" She blinked slowly as she spoke.

"I have no idea. But I know you two had some damn good luck with the USS _Arden_, and have seen more Class 4 biohazards than any officers I could think of." He turned away from Mulder, and smiled at his partner. "And I am sorry about dragging you into this, Dana."

Mulder had been watching O'Byrn speak, but at that he swung around to see Scully blush and smile slightly. Shocked, he looked back to see the Captain smile as well. Then he remembered. Her father had been a Navy man.

"That's part of my job, Uncle Kane." She smiled, and took Mulder by the arm. She dragged him out of the office before he had a chance to shake a comment loose.


	2. Chapter 2

The forward hold of the _Elliot_ was a cavernous bay, poorly lit by bulbs far above the floor. Perishables and ammo were stored here in formidable crates lashed to the grating underfoot. The whole room smelled of machine oil, and human sweat, and was as hot as an oven. The area was intended for a vertical launch missile system, but budget cutbacks curtailed that idea. Presently, the room echoed the sound of the twin diesel turbines aft like a cathedral to engineering. Mulder was almost as uncomfortable as he would be in a church.

There was a silent crowd clustered together in the bay, and Dana and Fox were the only two not in uniform. Eight men in dark gray fatigues lounged about on or near the crates. Some were sleeping, others stripping automatic rifles. Two men sat shoulder to shoulder, talking quietly. Three other officers, in pressed Army fatigues, sat together around an overturned carton. They were quietly examining a sets of drawings. It was unnerving that the loudest noise they made was the rustling of their papers. Last was a man in the light blue of the Air Force, sitting quietly in the corner. Despite the darkness of the room, he continued to wear a pair of aviator's sunglasses. Fox pegged him as a spook, or intelligence officer, immediately.

"Cute. We're going to go investigating with a strike force." Scully's aplomb took Mulder off stride. He looked down to see her frankly appraising the people before her.

"I told you we had back-up. If you don't like 'em, maybe 'Uncle Kane' can get some new ones." His blank face, turned down to her, met her eyes.

"Honestly Mulder, I didn't know he'd be here until I read the ship's name in the file on the way over." Her blue eyes searched his empty face.

"Well, I for one am glad that the man with the biggest guns is a bona fide good guy." He faked a smile for her. Mulder's accustomed way to deal with unpleasant feelings was to dive headlong into action.

"Thanks." She was glad he wasn't upset. He didn't like the military or surprises, so Uncle Kane was a bit much for him. She had thought that perhaps she should have warned Mulder in advance, but hadn't wanted to. It was just something she'd rather not go into.

Fox was, however, quite upset. His partner and friend had lied to him about where she'd been, and then casually omitted the story about her 'Uncle Kane.' He couldn't think of too many reasons why she would be doing all this. The one idea that kept coming to mind was that she didn't care for or trust him. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and picked a target from the room.

Without further ado, Mulder set out across the cargo bay, making a beeline for the Air Force Officer. Dana rolled her eyes, knowing that her partner wanted to go trolling for trouble. She felt that he probably didn't even stop to think first. After all, being a skinny civilian in a dank hold with a small strike force put him at no disadvantage, right?

Dana pushed a wave of her copper hair back behind her ear, and quietly wound her way through the hold toward the back. She wanted to talk to the men in the back, whom she presumed to be the USAMRIID team. Perhaps she would be able to find out what was planned, and still keep an eye on Mulder.

Fox, meanwhile, had picked up a small wooden crate labeled 'USN/SPL/1207-A Drd. Frts.' He walked a short distance before depositing it a few feet in front of the Air Force officer. Fighting his nausea in order to smile broadly, Fox sat down on it. And despite being at eye level, less than four feet away, the officer didn't move.

Mulder leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Hi! My name's Agent Mulder. Everybody calls me 'Spooky.' I guess that makes two of us, huh?"

The officer did not move.

"I'm here to see the aliens. When they meet the President, I mean. How about you?" The glint in his eye betrayed some of Mulder's emotions.

The officer was completely quiet.

"Are you one of the corpses he's returning to them?" When Mulder's question wasn't answered, some of the animation drained from his face.

Tentatively, he reached for the man's dark sunglasses. He hesitated a few inches away, but then resumed reaching for them.

The man's hand snapped up, clenching tight about Mulder's wrist. Fox, Dana, and several onlooking soldiers all jumped at this.

"No, Agent Mulder, I'm not dead." He remained expressionless as he spoke.

"You could have fooled me." Fox extricated his arm, not without difficulty. "You seem to know me, but I don't know your name." He tried for the most saccharine voice he could, while still sneering.

"I'm glad." Mulder heard a snort behind him.

It suddenly dawned on Mulder that the soldiers lounging about behind him were no longer lounging about behind him. They were surreptitiously watching as he made a fool of himself. And thanks to his own obnoxious sense of humor, he'd made it very difficult to extricate himself from the situation. He blinked, and wondered how you backed away when you were sitting nose to nose with the original Mr. Stoneface.

Thinking quickly, Fox smiled broadly, and announced in a loud voice, "Nice to meet you Sergeant Glad!" Now the spook had to decide whether he wanted to put up with that, or come up with a better name and rank.

"You, Agent Mulder, are in my way." Glad hardly moved as he spoke.

"Gee, I guess that makes me Glad, too." Mulder heard another snort behind him.

Slowly, Glad turned to face Mulder fully. "You and me can play all the games we want. Later."

"Really? The Reticulans play Three-Card Stud." Mulder smiled, enjoying every needle he could stick into the Air Force Officer.

Glad lowered his glasses, exposing surprisingly warm brown eyes. "Once we hit that rig, stud, you'll be praying for aliens."

Mulder shared one trait, and one alone with the sociopaths he excelled at profiling; he simply did not respond to punishment. If anything, his lopsided grin got bigger and tighter. He opened his mouth to burn Glad for that remark, but was halted by a light touch on his shoulder. He didn't need to turn to recognize Dana; it seemed to Fox that the soft smell of her hair preceded her always.

"Mulder," she said with false lightness, "I've got some papers you need to see. Come take a look." She stressed the last ever so slightly.

Mulder looked up at Dana, her face only a foot away. She was wearing a flannel shirt and a red windbreaker over a thick white tee shirt, though both were open. Fox could see that she was wearing her shoulder holster underneath, barely visible past the curve of her breast. Quickly he looked back up to meet the urgent look in her eyes.

Fox hesitated momentarily as he watched Dana's eyes flicker. "Yeah, sure Scully."

He stood up, and wavered slightly as the seasickness overtook him. For a second, his right hand opened, instinctively reaching for Scully's shoulder. But he would be damned before he did that, doubly so with the soldiers watching. Instead he gamely walked away, fighting his balance and the sensation of hostile eyes burning his back.

For a moment, he paused a few feet away, debating whether or not Scully would let him fire a parting shot. Her hand on his arm tightened briefly, and he gamely followed her to the USAMRIID encampment.

Scully quickly took a seat around the impromptu table with the other doctors, and pulled on Fox's arm until he sank down as well. Before he could bollix a second meeting for the day, Scully decided to intervene.

"Mulder, these are Doctors Whitman, Pryce, and Hadat. They're from the Army Infectious Disease Center." She gestured to the three men in turn.

Fox shook hands perfunctorily with each. All had uniformly dry hands, and the same firm, brief grip he did.

"Hi guys. Bomb any California towns recently?" Mulder's smile was beginning to annoy Scully, so she surreptitiously kicked his shin.

Three dour faces greeted Mulder's question, but the youngest man, Whitman, smiled. "No. But I'm new to this assignment."

The oldest man, a short Major with a sad face, nodded in the direction of Glad. "Nice to see you want to antagonize the pit bulls before you take them for a walk. You have figured out that he's the local Bad Man, haven't you?" Scully could hear the capitalized letters in Pryce's cultured voice.

"Yeah, I noticed. I also noticed you guys are bringing biohazard suits and respirators with your guns. I guess that makes you real friendly." Seasickness had Mulder's stomach rolling, and he felt like sharing some of the acid.

"Mulder!" Scully snapped. "There's a good chance this is caused by some biological contaminant, like we found in Alaska."

Hadat chimed in, with a deep booming voice. "I cleaned up your mess at that USGS station. If you'd gone in with clean suits, there would have been more people walking out."

"Nice Monday Morning Quarterbacking, Doctor." Fox kept his eyes blank. "But I don't seem to recall seeing you up there at the time."

Hadat looked grim. "I'm here now."

Mulder's jaw worked, though he appeared otherwise impassive. After a moment, he waved his hand. "Okay, so what have you got for us?"

"These are the deck plans for the rig." Pryce gestured to the somewhat crumpled blueprints spread out before them. "The SEALs are already familiar with this type of design, but we needed some better information."

Mulder glanced up. "How the living room is decorated?"

"No, just structural stuff. As you can see, the derrick is a warren of vents and shafts, used to cool machinery and people. Some of it vents air from the oil reserves, some vents from the drills. In any case, sealing it off in case there is a toxin or virus aboard is damn near impossible. Even if you ignored all the rust holes and rats." Major Pryce outlined these systems with a pen as he spoke.

"I take it you do have a plan though." Mulder wasn't asking a question.

"Yes. We go over and check the place out. Any persistent toxins get washed, any class 4 viruses, and the team lights the rig."

Fox sat back. "You plan on demolishing a multi-million dollar oil rig?"

Hadat answered him. "No, we don't. But if we can't burn a class 4 contagion out, the structure goes down. Agent Mulder, if the Hoover Building got hit by something that lethal, we'd burn it out with formaldehyde."

"Now there's a project I can really get behind. So what about the possibility of terrorists?" Now he actually looked curious. The intellectual puzzle pulled his attention away from how sick he felt.

"The SEAL team will be going with us. We'd need them in the event we had to blow the rig, anyway."

While they were talking, Whitman leaned over Scully's shoulder. "Is he always this flip?" he whispered.

"No," she hissed. She didn't know what had gotten into her partner suddenly.

Mulder stood up abruptly, "Well, guys. Sounds like you have everything planned. Have fun. And call me when you get back."

Whitman glanced at Pryce before he spoke. "Um, Agent Mulder, you and Dr. Scully are coming with us. Right?"

"Why? Sounds like you have everything well in hand." He thrust his hands into his jean pockets.

"Mulder," Scully got up to face him, tuning the USAMRIID people out. "What is your problem here?"

In return, Fox simply eyed her intensely, his jaw working. He watched her silently until it became obvious that she was waiting for him to say something. Then it was his turn to take her by the arm, and drag her away. He pulled her along until they rounded a large crate, and disappeared into the darkness.

"Okay Mulder, stop." She pulled away as he let her go. She whispered to him, "Now do you want to tell me what's going on?"

"What do you mean, 'tell you what's going on'?" Mulder suddenly dropped the veneer of calm which had covered him. "You've been listening to these loony-tunes as long as I have."

Scully balled her fists. Everything had to be a conspiracy with Mulder, she thought. And now he was mad at her for not being rank and file in agreement with him from the start. "I've been listening to medical doctors outline a plan for the containment of what may be a Level 4 biohazard. If that rig has Anthrax, or something similar, we can't afford to take chances."

Mulder leaned forward, his face pressing down toward her. "Scully, I don't care if they've got Ebola over there. The Navy has hospital ships that can deal with it. So does the Coast Guard. Hell, the Blackhawk is big enough to have been sent directly from the mainland."

"What are you saying?" She had a chilling idea of what he was suggesting.

"They sent a ship out with _cruise missiles_ on the deck. The thing's got a cannon on the foredeck, and a hit team inside. Why divert a cruiser, unless you want to use it?"

"It could be the nearest ship. It might need the smallest crew. It could be the easiest to seal against contaminants." Fox shook his head as she listed possibilities. "You have no reason to believe this is some grand conspiracy."

"No? How about us? I get those pictures dropped off on my doorstep. Then two hours later the Navy wants us out here with them. Out with that killer in uniform, Glad!"

"Whom you've so graciously alienated. If you honestly thought he was a problem, why bait him like that?" She arched an eyebrow, her full lips pulled back in a grin.

"I wanted to know if I was right." His hazel eyes were flat, clouded.

"Right about what? That Air Force officers have no sense of humor?" She tried keeping her face as straight as he, but her eyes danced.

"No, that this is just meant to get me out on the ocean. Alone."

"You're hardly alone. You've got me, my Uncle, and every other member of the team here." She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She had to admit, this was a ridiculous argument.

"That was just what I was worried about." Fox took a step away from her.

Scully stood up straight at that, her slight smile gone instantly. A jumbled montage of Mulder's recent behavior flashed warningly past her eyes before she spoke. "What does that mean?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded tiny.

"You know what I mean, Scully."

"He's just my Uncle, Mulder. For goodness sake, I trust him."

"I know that. So do a lot of other people."

"Mulder, you can't get rid of a cruiser. And I trust Uncle Kane." She set her jaw, her arms crossed. "So that means that you can trust him, since you can trust me."

"I can?"

Dana stopped breathing. How could he say something like that, after all they'd been through. "You know you can. I wouldn't lie to you." He had her trust, completely. And she'd always presumed she had his. How could they be this close, and still lack that trust?

"Okay, Scully. Let's try this morning one more time." With a smile resembling the grimace he'd assumed for 'Sergeant Glad,' Fox leaned down again toward Dana. "How was the weekend?"

Light dawned in her eyes, as cold as his. She flushed red, then white. "That's what this is about? My weekend?"

"No. You lied to me." His full lips never even paused as he spoke, never betrayed a feeling.

Dana felt something trip high inside her chest, and her head buzzed slightly with anger. "Agent Mulder," she hissed through clenched teeth, "Unlike you, I have a private life. And it is just that. Private."

With that, Dana turned about, and left Fox standing behind a crate of toilet paper. She never looked back as she headed to her berth, furious. She never saw Mulder's face crumple with grief.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, the USS _Elliot_ was steaming south at ten knots, just making headway against an approaching tropical storm. Her width and speed kept the deck level enough for a helicopter takeoff. But the bulk of the ship was visible only as an eerie gray mass, for all the lights were out in accordance with wartime procedures.

Dana couldn't tell what had her rattled the most. Proceeding into a hazardous area was bad enough, but doing so in a blacked out military chopper was sickening. And she was gathered with the rest of the team in the mess hall just fore of the flight deck. And despite the close quarters, no one spoke as they were drilled on the proper use of their biohazard suits.

Mulder was somewhere at the back of the room, out of Scully's field of vision. They hadn't seen one another in hours, and hadn't spoken since she'd left him behind in the cargo hold. Now it was beginning to appear that this state of affairs would last a while.

She hoped he remembered to take the anti-nausea medications she'd given him. Vomiting in a sealed suit was a method of insuring an ugly death.

The team suiting up consisted of sixteen members. Agents Mulder and Scully were the first two, and the Air Force officer came next. Then the three man USAMRIID team, and the ten Navy SEALs. All were clad in glossy olive drab suits that covered them from head to toe. They each had goggles and a face mask connected by two hoses to an airtank on their backs.

Once Scully finished sealing the rubberized zipper and side flap, she could barely hear over her own breathing. The small microphone and earpiece she wore were connected to a radio, and through it she could hear what a microphone outside her suit picked up. She could also hear the rest of the team.

Her hands were thick and clumsy in the oversized gloves, and she fumbled with her holster, trying to enlarge it to fit over her suit. A similarly gloved hand covered hers, and she looked up, startled. She couldn't see the man's face, but he was several inches shorter than Fox. He pulled the gun and holster from her, and removed them from her shoulder rig. Tossing the rig aside, he clipped the gun to a web belt, and handed the assembly back to her. It fit well, and she wished she could smile at him.

"Thanks." Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, and she wondered what he heard.

"No problem, ma'am. It's part of the service." The name on his suit read 'Peirson.'

Then there was no more time for talking. A short man briefed them on their insertion, and extraction by helicopter. Captain O'Byrn wished them good luck and Godspeed. And two sailors then led the team out single file to the helicopter. All through this, Scully felt as though she were spinning.

The Blackhawk looked darker than the night itself as it crouched on the flight deck. Its thick rotor blades were already whirring about over the heads of the team members clambering into it. A soldier, faceless behind the black visor of his flight helmet, strapped Dana to the left side wall of the machine. She was wedged between two huge men, and not enjoying the takeoff in the least. The nose of the craft tilted down suddenly, and with a sickening leap the helicopter left the _Elliot_. Dana's hands were slick against the rubber gloves but there was nothing she could do about it.

Breathing fast from airsickness, Scully began examining each teammate around her. She tried to distract herself from her nausea. The two men on either side of her were SEALs, she was sure of that. They had several pouches for explosives, and carried CAR-15 assault rifles, like most of the others. The CAR-15 was a short, brutish version of the M-16, and designed for close fighting. It still remained a fully automatic weapon.

She saw the USAMRIID team strapped down across the chopper's hold from her. They were loaded down with medical gear, and their suits had blue stripes across their upper arms. Scully smiled when one of those dark shapes waved to her.

Up near the nose, was where the rest of the SEAL team crouched down. None of these men were strapped down, and most held on to grips near the open doors. All these young men carried CAR-15s, save two. One held the much longer M-16, with some type of wide-mouthed barrel slung underneath it. The second carried a Steyr AUG, something she'd only seen in movies. The casing was a smooth impact-plastic, and it held a monstrously huge clip, oddly placed behind the pistol grip.

Behind her, in the rear two seats, sat Mulder and the officer who still hadn't given his name. They were easy to tell apart; Mulder's suit bunched under the shoulder rig he wore for his pistol, while the other man carried an MP5 over his shoulder. The MP5 walked the middleground between sub-machinegun and pistol. It was small enough to be fired one-handed, but the kick was tremendous. It put out a rate of fire comparable to the squad's machineguns, and still fit snugly under one arm. It was an ugly, terrorist's weapon, and Glad wore it comfortably. He'd slung the strap over his head in a way Scully could not have known was made popular by Israeli commando teams. The black thing in Glad's hands made Mulder look fairly naked beside him.

Fox never looked once at the man beside him, or at Dana. His attention was firmly fixed out the window. It was if he'd shut her out completely. Scully wanted to talk some sense into him, but the radios were open; if she tried, everyone would hear her.

With nothing else to do, Dana stared out the nearest porthole. She no longer minded looking out the windows, for the uniform blackness masked their height. But the bouncing of the helicopter itself upon the marine winds still unnerved her.

Her microphone came to life with the static-charged voice of the pilot, "Heads-up people. Thirty seconds to touchdown."

There was almost no motion in the cramped hold, but Scully felt the energy ramping up. It was as if the approaching landing charged everyone with the sense of danger. Dana's heart was thudding like a triphammer in her chest. She swallowed tightly, and glanced back at her partner. He still looked away.

"Nine meters." Through the windows, Dana saw the scaffolding of the derrick rise over them like burnt bones.

"Three meters." The helicopter pitched nose up sharply, and everyone hung on tightly. The soldier behind Scully steadied her with a hand below her ribs.

"Down and clear." At the pilot's words, the Blackhawk bounced down against the steel deckplates.

"Move out. Two and two." The squad leader never looked back as seven of his nine men followed him quietly out of the chopper. They were out and against the buildings in less that three seconds.

With a rush of air and noise, the Blackhawk ripped free of the landing platform, and dove off the derrick. Dana's stomach shot into her throat as the pilot yanked hard on the collective controls, leveling off a few feet from the wave crests. Then he began circling the rig.

With a start, Dana realized that the two soldiers next to her hadn't left with the rest of the team. She looked up, startled to find the masked face looking down at her.

"We'll be right here, ma'am. We're going in with you all." It was Peirson.

With that the chopper beat its way into the air again, only to hold itself over the rig. Scully's hand shot to her stomach.

"Oh, God." It was that quick, quiet tone used by med students when they start their first autopsy.

"Easy, there. We'll be down in a few." Peirson kept a quiet hand on her arm. It was . . . familiar.

"Nine meters." Now Dana kept her eyes shut on approach, missing the look Fox shot her.

"Three meters." Again the helicopter pitched nose up sharply. Peirson kept a firm hand on Scully, steadying her.

Now the helicopter fairly slammed onto the deck, and Scully heard the whine of the engine die away. Peirson snapped the restraints from himself and Scully, and quickly hustled her off the machine.

Still dizzy with airsickness, Dana could hear the pounding of feet as everybody ran into the nearby shelter. She was oblivious to the sound of the Blackhawk taking to the darkened sky behind her. It wasn't until the door closed behind her, and she pressed up against a wall that she felt human again.

One of the SEALs chimed in over the radio, "Welcome to the caverns, everybody." Dana turned, noting that the square man was named Soun.

Then as her dizziness passed, Scully realized why Soun used the word 'caverns.' The walls were burnt black and pitted, as if by fire. The roof had cracked in several places, through which water trickled. But in the center of the floor was a roughly circular hole six feet across. As she leaned forward to peer down, she saw that the metal flooring had melted and run down into the next level. And the hole continued down three floors.

The entire team was lining the perimeter of the room, eyeing the hole and the walls warily.

The soldier in charge of the SEAL team, Lt. Quiddis spoke up. "We've checked out the upper floors, and the gantries. There's nobody home here. The second helicopter platform is a complete loss, and so's the Coastie's chopper."

Mulder interrupted quickly. "So why move us in so soon?"

Lt. Quiddis never stopped looking around as he answered. "I can't find a serious threat here."

"Well, how about whatever made that hole. I'll call that a threat." Fox's humor was lost on the soldiers.

"Agent Mulder, we have no idea what did that."

Peirson spoke up. "If it was an explosion, the roof'd be gone. Same for a fire. Could be a slow thermite burn through, but why would you use it?" He directed his question toward Dana.

Major Pryce cut through the tense conversation. "Okay, so it's clear up top. So let's set up our lab in the hanger on Platform Two, and you guys can clean out the lower levels. We'll start speculating once we have some information. Snap to it people"

With that, nearly everybody started hustling about. All but the two Agents, and Glad.

The USAMRIID team had co-opted the three people, using them to help set up a rudimentary laboratory on Platform Two. It was set up with a small quarantine box, and material for testing. If there was a bacteriological or virological agent on the rig, they could find and quantify its abilities.

While Dr. Scully worked setting up equipment, she ran over the layout of the facility in her head. Platform Two was the second of the four major sections of the rig itself. Each Platform was some six levels high, and centered over one of the four pylons that anchored the rig to the ocean floor. Down the center of the rig was the scaffolding that ran downward to the oil fields.

Platform Two was mainly for industrial use. It contained machine shops, the generators, the hangers, both helicopter pads, and the dock. This section was heavily fire damaged above the third floor, and one of the two helo pads was gone. Indeed, it was the fire in this section that she'd seen in Fox's photograph.

Platform One was purely living quarters. It took a lot of men to keep everything on the derrick running, and they were given ample room. There were dormer rooms, and recreational areas. Weight rooms, and restrooms sat alongside a small television room, and well-sized kitchen. Where ever these men were now, they had left an excellently provisioned rig.

Platform Three was administrative. Offices for bureaucrats, and a small hospital were set up in this area. Scully had thought this would make a better place to set up a lab, but Pryce had said no. Their hospital would be the most likely source of any infectious diseases.

And Platform Four was mostly machinery. The desalinization equipment and water treatment equipment was set up here. It was squashed into the rig's corrugated walls next to the oil and ballast pumps, and the climate control evaporators.

And a network of corridors, ducts, and pipes connected these sections, strung along the steel beams of the rig itself.

Scully finished laying out the chemical agents, and saw that Mulder was still working. He and Whitman were bolting together the plastic panels of the small quarantine container. Manipulating the tools in their heavy gloves was difficult, and Fox dropped his wrench repeatedly. Presently, he was kneeling inside the lexan box, attaching the airtight interior seals.

Dana looked about the blackened hanger, and saw that the rest of the USAMRIID team was finishing their setup.

She walked up behind Mulder, and tapped him on the back. He tried to shoot to his feet, only managing to slam the crown of his head into the plastic.

Dana jumped back as Fox swore sharply. The headset radios broadcast a few choice imprecations to the other doctors, who laughed softly to themselves.

"Ow. What is it Scully?" Fox didn't sound happy as he rolled into a sitting position.

Scully winced inside her mask. This wasn't starting out right. "I was wondering if you needed any help."

"I do now." Mulder rubbed his head, and held out a hand. "Hey, Whitman. You wanna help an old man up?"

Dana nearly stepped forward to help him before she realized that he wasn't talking to her. It burned her that he would be so deliberate about shutting her out. Everybody in the hanger suddenly became preoccupied with their work.

Whitman pulled Mulder to his feet, and then started across the hanger floor. "Got work to do. I'll help finish up in a minute." He made a quick escape.

"Okay, Mulder. You want to talk now?" She set her feet, her gloved hands folded about her arms.

"We've got work to do. You want to give Pryce a hand while I finish this?" His tone was neutral, but Dr. Scully wished she could see his face through his suit's mask.

Instead she took a deep breath. Mulder's posture was loose, and he kept facing Scully. She reached up, and turned off her radio.

He paused momentarily, then turned his radio off. Dana walked up to him, and the gunbelt settled lower on her hips as she moved. She decided to ignore it, concentrating instead on her partner.

She reached up, and grabbed one of his air hoses, using it to pull his head down to her level. For a moment he resisted, before letting her. She pressed her masked face up to his, and started talking.

"Can you hear me?"

"Barely. But I don't know why." His voice was muffled, strained.

"Conduction of vibration, Mulder."

"No. I mean why all this." She knew what he'd meant. Dana had just chosen to ignore him.

"Mulder, just stop this, all right? We've got to work together here, and I'm tired of your attitude." She knew this wasn't the time or place for this conversation, but there was little she could do.

"Just another reason for you to be tired today, huh Scully?"

Dana stopped cold. Indeed she hadn't slept much recently, and now Mulder was pushing her buttons. She felt genuine affection for this man, and she'd relished every opportunity she had to summon his soft smile. She'd learned to like the double edged humor he protected himself with. But now he had turned that against her.

She pressed her mask against the side of Fox's wounded head. "How dare you! What the hell gives you the right to be involved in my life?"

"You're my partner." Again, he sounded cold and distant as he spoke.

"Yes. And that's it. No less, no more. Got it?" She was absolutely calm, and rock solid as she spoke. But she kept her arms crossed, lest he notice that her hands were shaking inside the gloves.

Mulder pulled his head back, and snapped on his radio. Standing over her in his suit, Fox was a nameless, faceless body. One she didn't even recognize.

Dana's lips were pressed tight, fighting against tears she didn't want to shed. Momentarily, she was thankful for the anonymity lent by the layers of rubber.

Then Mulder spun suddenly, and ran for the door. Scully was shocked to see the USAMRIID team and Glad all following suit. For a long puzzled moment, she was lost. Then the obvious occurred to her, and she flipped her radio back on.

It hissed in her ear. "-again, we found some people. I think."

The radio continued to crackle as Agent Scully drew her pistol, and followed the rest of her team.

The power was out below the fifth level of Platform Two, and when the USAMRIID team threw open the stairwell door, only a black pit awaited them. Scully could see the high power beam from Mulder's flashlight bounce down the stairs.

"We're on level three, north face. And bring the bags; it's rough looking in here." Scully unclipped her own flashlight, and continued down after Fox.

Level three was a mess. Dark metal cabinets hung open on torn hinges. The overhead lights and ducting were shattered. The walls and floors were burned through in places. All the walls were scorched, and smoke still drifted from insulation panels. Dr . Scully was glad she was breathing from an air tank.

"Peirson, pop a flare for illumination." She heard the Lieutenant's orders over her radio as she ran down the hall after everyone. The radio sizzled momentarily. Then she heard Whitman's voice. "Oh God . . ."

She nearly ran into him as he stumbled out of a charred doorway to her left. Dana grabbed his arm, and pulled him around.

"You alright?" She pulled his face down to hers, and tried to peer through his goggles into his eyes in the dark.

"Yeah. Yeah." He leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. As Scully went to walk past him, he tried to grab her arm. "No! Don't go in there."

She shrugged him off and entered the room, finding the entire team transfixed by the sight around them.

The large, open area was still clogged with smoke, and Scully's flashlight played off charred ruins. Sticking up over a fractured pump was the burnt remains of a human hand, still clutching a shotgun.

The walls were warped from the heat, and the peeling remains of blood and paint decorated them like unholy lace. Here and there, the walls were peppered with small burn marks, and many puckered bullet holes. As her flashlight's beam wandered about the room, it showed smoking arms and legs, torn chest cavities, and gleaming bone.

She shut her eyes, and breathed deeply.

Mulder's voice brought her eyes open. "Well, anybody want to take bets on a virus?"

Strewn about the room were the remains of three dead Coast Guard sailors. Only Dr. Scully could tell the number, however. No one else in the room had the presence of mind to add up the number of skulls.


	4. Chapter 4

The soldiers had the dubious honor of collecting the remains, and transporting them to the hanger on level six. The makeshift litters were made using buckled cabinet doors. The procession was armed, and every member looked about, expecting to see armed men appear from around every corner.

The blacked out staircase was a nightmare in the dark. Scully led the soldiers upward, her pistol held next to her head. She had to adjust her grip at each landing, because the glove prevented her from easily fitting her finger inside the trigger guard . But it was easy to think about her gun, and the narrow swath of stairwell she carved out with her light.

Easier than thinking about anything else. Like the sundered bodies behind her. Or the inky darkness pressing in about her. Much better to concentrate on the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, than the idea of viri crawling all over your suit. Far better to concentrate on the heavy sounds of the team ascending the metal stairs, than the confounding partner she was leaving behind.

Soon, she had reached the last doorway, and she stopped, gesturing for the rest of the team to stop. A suited man with a rifle quickly pushed his way past everyone else, and joined her at the doorway. She brushed her light along his chest, reading the name Peirson.

"Peirson, on three. Okay?" She was winded just by the weight of the suit and tank, and the stress showed in her voice.

"On three. Um, Scully . . . Do you mean the door?" He sounded lighthearted, and not in the least fatigued.

The other soldiers had been as silent as pallbearers for several minutes. Now they all bustled with rough humor. Until the Lieutenant randomly smacked someone in the head.

"Knock it of, all of you! Peirson, on your own time!" Scully flushed behind her mask as the Lieutenant upbraided his men.

She decided to ignore it. "One." She stepped up alongside the wall.

"Two" Both spoke in synch as Peirson moved up in front of the door, his rifle at the ready.

"Three!" She spun the latch unlocked as he kicked the door open. Then he stepped left, and covered the left side of the hanger, while Dana spun out into a trapezoidal stance. She brought the gun down to her side when she was sure there was no one on her right.

"Hey, El-Tee! We're clear up here." Peirson slung his rifle over one shoulder, and held the door open for the rest of his team.

A series of remains, each tentatively identified as belonging to one individual, were then slowly deposited in the makeshift lab by the SEAL team.

Scully looked through the open hanger doors at the night sea, visible only as a gray field. She wondered just what turned this place into a killing ground. It was her job as pathologist to find out what.

"Time to go, Mulder." Pryce was holding a small flashlight as he stood in the open doorway to the room in which the men had died. From the way he cast the beam back and forth, frequently looking around the hallway, the charnelhouse bothered him.

"Hey, Agent Mulder. We have to get back."

Fox had long since ceased to sift through the ashes for shell casings. He'd even given up tracing the holes in the walls with his hand. Now he stood in the center of the twisted mess, his evidence baggies gripped tightly in his hand, and both arms wrapped about his chest.

Whitman turned from where he'd been taking samples. "Sir, are you okay?"

Mulder stopped looking around the room, instead intently peering at the ceiling. He didn't see Whitman approach him from behind.

"Sir-" Whitman tapped him on the back, and Agent Mulder spun about, the muzzle of his pistol shaking in the young doctor's face. Whitman let out a yelp, and fell backward onto the floor.

"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Pryce closed in on Fox, his hands in fists. Fox raised a hand to his mask, and switched his radio back on.

"Sorry there." He holstered his firearm and helped Whitman to his feet. Whitman was still shaking.

"Sorry? Dammit! Get a light on Whitman, and I mean now!" Pryce started going over the other USAMRIID officer's P3 suit with his own light. "Check for punctures. And I mean NOW!"

"Oh Jesus no. Not, not . . . like them?" Whitman's voice had gone soft and thick.

Hadat grabbed his hands and pulled Whitman about to face him. "Not a chance, son. Just breath deep in there. Breathe." While he spoke, Mulder turned his Bureau Flashlight on the kid's back, checking him quietly.

For two tense minutes, the four men panicked, and prayed. Whitman was checked from head to foot, and no punctures could be found. But before Whitman could let out his breath, Major Pryce had rounded on Mulder.

"Goddamn it. What were you thinking, turning off your radio?" He was furious, and still wasn't calmed down. "You could have killed that kid! Either tearing his suit, or shooting him."

Mulder picked up his baggies of evidence before answering. "You were making too much noise for me to think. And Whitman startled me is all. Besides, the safety is on my pistol."

"Agent Mulder, if any one of us punctures our suit, we would be exposed to whatever is on this rig." He grabbed the leather strap of Fox's shoulder holster, shaking him for emphasis. "Do you get it?"

Mulder pulled away. "I'm sorry. But you can relax, there's no virus here."

"And now you've got a medical degree too. I'm not impressed."

"Well I am. But you're right about one thing; it's time to get out of here."

"We're not through with this one." Pryce pointed at him sharply.

"No, we're not. Just go prove for yourself there's nothing here."

Pryce spun and slammed the door behind him. A nearby pipe hissed, its seal undoubtedly broken. Mulder took Whitman by the shoulder and helped him out of the room.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. And I know it's not your fault. The Major just gets like this." They quickly started up the stairs.

"I guess neither of us is in a good mood." Mulder swung the flashlight behind himself at odd intervals. He thought he heard something scraping the metal floors.

"No problem. Uh, Mulder . . ." Whitman paused. "Just leave your radio on, though."

Reaching the door to the hanger, Mulder stepped through before locking it. "No problem."

Dr. Scully was already talking to the USAMRIID team by the time Mulder made his way across the cavernous hanger to her. The other doctors were talking to her from across one of the charred corpses. Fox stepped up to the foot of the examination table, chilled by the sight of these rubber-suited doctors calmly talking over maimed and burned body.

Dana interrupted Pryce with a raised hand as Mulder approached. "Good news or bad first."

"I'll take the bad first. Seems appropriate somehow." He started to rest his hands on the table, then rethought the idea. Although the suit was sealed, he imagined he could smell the body.

"Well, according to the level and penetrance of tissue damage, that room was over four-hundred degrees centigrade." She gestured toward the remains, its joints flexed and locked by the heat. "That was enough to destroy most of the evidence, including any information on the possible presence of a contaminant."

"But you've got good news." Fox managed to keep facing her, silently glad for the mask that hid her eyes.

"Yes. Peirson and I conducted scrapings, based on some bloodstains he found in the hallway." Dana reached behind her, and Peirson handed her several small cases. Each had a soft waxy substance lining the bottom.

"Gee Doctor Scully, you and Peirson seem good at scraping." It slipped out past gritted teeth before he could stop himself. She'd brought his temper up, and it took hold faster than he could think.

Dana froze for a moment, biting the tip of her tongue. She didn't know what to do when her partner and friend undermined her in front of her colleagues. If it were anyone else, she thought, I'd just dismantle them. Shit.

Peirson turned on Fox, but said nothing. He just touched her back softly through the suit.

Dana stepped away quickly. She was sure that Peirson meant well, but he was just throwing gas on the fire. And she now had the other doctors' attention, but for the wrong reasons.

She cleared her throat. "We. . . I inoculated several varieties of bacterium samples we brought from the _Elliot_. Over the last hour and a half, no plaques have formed." She set the samples down and turned to Mulder. "That means no virus has killed off areas of the bacteria."

"Well, that fits in with what I found down below." He swallowed an acid comment, and tossed his baggies of evidence onto the metal counter. They rattled sharply at the twisted foot remaining on the corpse.

Dr. Scully waited patiently. She knew how Mulder liked to explain his ideas, and knew that he'd simply be more difficult now that he was angry.

Hadat wasn't nearly as patient. "What exactly did you find, Mr. Mulder." He purposefully omitted Fox's title.

"Aside from a lot of ashes, not too much." Hadat threw his hands up. "But all the shells I collected had expended firing caps. They expended all their ammo, and nothing cooked off in the fire."

"So they shot one another. That still doesn't explain why." Pryce was interested in this, against his better judgment. In the midst of that mausoleum, he'd forgotten to check for shells.

Surprisingly, it was Dana that answered. "They didn't shoot one another. None of these remains showed any sign of bullet wounds, though all had compound premortem fractures of the long bones, and substantial soft tissue damage."

"Did you find bite marks?" Mulder found himself talking to his partner normally again, pulled into their relationship by the mystery at hand.

"Not really." She was uncomfortable with the way he was dropping into his usual role, as though nothing was wrong.

"Not really?" Inside his heavy mask, Fox's head tilted ever so slightly at this. "What does that mean?"

"What? Oh . . ." Actually, she was having a hard time keeping her mind on the autopsy results. Dana was still marveling at the way Fox could shift gears, both personally and professionally. "One victim, an unidentified male, was found to have a six point five centimeter circular hole in his skull, located three centimeters above his brow ridge. The brain was destroyed, and I found fragments of bone within the soft tissues. There was no corresponding exit wound."

Pryce picked up the folder Dr. Scully had been writing in earlier. "That's nice, doctor. But that sounds like a pistol wound. Large caliber, wadcutter round."

"That's what I thought at first. But there are some anomalies here." She picked up the severed head and held it out to Major Pryce. "As you can see, there are deep grooves in the bone along the sides of the entrance wound. Unless someone filed the edges of a bullet hole after this man was shot . . ."

"Well, that's not likely." The doctors turned to look at Mulder again. "I found metal shrapnel about the room, stuck in some furniture in a few places. It looks like a stray round set off a kerosene can nearby. Those men were firing randomly, and one of them hit the kerosene they'd brought with them. Then whatever they were shooting at got to them before the flames did."

There was a long moment of silence, while four medical doctors stared at the small pieces of metal lying in the palm of his hand. He glared at Scully, knowing she couldn't see him, wanting her to say something. The moment was broken by a low, appreciative whistle over their radios. "Damn. That's a hell of a reconstruction there, Slick."

Hadat spoke up gruffly, "There's no way you can be certain of all that, that, . . . conjecture."

The Lieutenant slowly walked up behind Mulder, and took the fragments from his hand. He brought each piece close to his goggles, and inside his suit he bit his lip.

"Well, people, that setup fits these fragments, the shells, and the bodies. Sounds like a pretty good call to me." Quiddis let the fragments tinkle softly to the examination table. "So does this mean you suspect they were killed by a wild animal in the middle of an ocean?"

"I've got lots of ideas. But we'll need to search this rig top to bottom for more evidence." The radio static broke Fox's smooth voice repeatedly.

Peirson interjected his own thoughts as he stepped up behind Dr. Scully. "Evidence? Like this isn't enough for you? Some kind of big dog killed them. That Soviet satellite was testing something, it came down, and their pet project killed these people." He waved over Dana's shoulder to the shriveled body on the table. "It's biowarfare, and it's not our problem. We scorch the rig and go home."

Major Pryce held up his hand, stopping the young man. "What's this about a satellite?"

A loaded silence descended immediately over the team. Scully realized sharply that the entire SEAL team was heavily armed. From the quick head movements from the suited USAMRIID team, they too had the same thought.

And Peirson was just inches behind her.

Her breath caught, adrenaline spreading like a cold snap through her chest. Dana was suddenly conscious of just how thin her P3 suit was. A drop of sweat slid from her mask's headband and ran down her temple tremulously. She stiffly turned away from Peirson, her ice blue eyes wide behind their goggles.

As she turned, she saw Peirson's whole body tense under the rubber of his suit. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

Now Quiddis barked at him, "Secure that mouth, damn it!"

Quiddis slapped futility at his mask, wishing he could scratch an itch under his jaw. Behind him, his men rubbed gloved fingers together, feeling the sweat-soaked rubber between them and their weapons. Quiddis looked up in the air, and swore softly.

He brought his head down, and spoke softly. "Okay. I'm going to pretend you never heard a thing. So are my men. Right?"

Ever so softly, eight men joined in. All sounded embarrassed, upset. Peirson watched Scully's stiff frame, and spoke only to her. "Of course."

Fox cleared his throat, and spoke loudly. Scully nearly jumped at the noise. "Well, now that we all know what were not talking about, an air force jet tracked something reentering the atmosphere around here."

"Mulder!" Scully and Quiddis both cried out, the tones entirely different.

Ignoring Dana, Mulder rounded on Quiddis. "How much do you want to die here, Lieutenant?"

Quiddis unsnapped the embossed leather cover to his sidearm. "Are you threatening me, Agent Mulder?"

Impossibly, the temperature in the dark hanger dropped again, and Dana suddenly found she couldn't hear her own breath in her ears.

"No, I'm telling you. If we don't know exactly what's going on here, we are going to die." He leaned forward intently. "But not because of me. Because whatever killed these men will kill us too."

"I'm talking national security." The Lieutenant's voice went up.

"So am I. What if you drag the next plague home with you? What if it goes through sealed suits?" Mulder paused, knowing that he had made the claustrophobic confines of everyone's suits feel like traps. "If the doctors here can't figure out what happened, that's it. None of us go back. Ever."

Lt. Quiddis turned around slowly, his mask scanning his men. No one needed to see his face to understand the shock written on it.

"Do you get it? No one would risk bringing you home until you can prove you're okay. And there's a warship out there, waiting for us. Now, do you still want to keep secrets Lieutenant?"

Scully held her breath. This was a dangerous game he was playing. How this man would react was damn near unpredictable, and she wondered whether Fox would goad him over the edge.

Quiddis circled back to the USAMRIID team, and rubbed his gloves together. "An E-3 picked up a CIS satellite, dedicated to biowarfare projects. It dropped into the ocean near here, and we think the workers spotted it, and brought the capsule onto their rig. We're here to find the capsule. Need anything else?" His voice was tired.

Hadat thought for a moment before speaking. "What was in it?" Even he sounded guarded.

"That's all I was told. A CIS biowarfare lab in space." He grabbed a lab stool and dropped onto it, slapping his thigh with his hand. "And Peirson, fuck up like that again, and you'll never see another mission."

"Yes, sir." Neither man looked at one another.

Mulder jumped in. "Okay, so its time we search the rig."

"Mulder," The tight note in Scully's voice brought him to face her. "When did you last see Glad?"

Mulder didn't answer. He simply spun sharply, scanning the hanger for Glad. He stopped, lost in thought while the SEAL team tried to contact him over the radio.

Quiddis jumped to his feet. "The spook isn't answering. Think he's . . . sick?"

Fox turned on the soldier. "No. He's insurance."

Colonel Ryan White tore at the fittings to his sealed suit. He managed to free himself of its sweaty embrace, and with it the last vestiges of 'Sergeant Glad.' Gone was the man who had sparred with Agent Mulder; now, he felt untouchable in his element. Ducking, he retrieved his MP5 again. Rising quietly, he kicked the suit into a dark corner, and slung the submachine gun over his head. The small nightvision visor fit about his temples, settling into the groove worn by the mask. Now he was ready.

The rusty hatch that lead out of Platform Two loomed before him in the pitch darkness. Through his visor it seemed an unsteady admixture of deep green shades as he unlatched it and threw it open.

Beyond it was a dark gray field, lit up by the stars overhead. He could hear the crash of the waves against the pylons below him, and smell the raw sea air. But most important, he saw the web-like shape of the gantry that linked Platforms Two and One. It bounced and rattled under him as he crossed, the muzzle of his weapon searching above him, along the windows of the crew quarters.

He found the door into the crew quarters sealed shut. The gangway led only back to the hanger, forcing his hand.

He pulled from a thigh pocket a thin coil of white plastic, known as Det-cord. He pressed it into position about the edge of the doorway, plunging the detonator caps deep into it on either end. He ran quickly for cover behind Platform Two's doorway, before triggering the explosives.

The small whooshing thump burned a thousand degree hole in the door, and blasted it inward. The noise of the metal hatch crashing to the floor seemed louder than the explosion, for the quick concussion wave was pitched too low to be heard fully. Again, Col. White ran down the gantry, this time ducking into Platform One.

The suit radio was still tucked to his ear, the microphone sealed up. He'd heard the discussions going on, and knew Quiddis wouldn't do the job.

Thankfully, he thought, oil burns well.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 

"No, stay with the doctors. We can't let Glad double back!" Mulder was shouting unnecessarily into his microphone as he held the stairwell door open for the SEAL team.

Scully winced along with the rest of the team as his words blasted into her right ear, but her gun never wavered. Instead, she stopped running for the door, staring at Fox as the last man passed him.

Without a word he disappeared through the door, his slick rubber suit blending with the darkness as he descended into the oil rig. Then the heavy metal door closed with a resounding clang.

She blinked sharply. Was this the way they always worked? She couldn't remember just how normal it was for him to leave her behind so abruptly. Could he be doing this solely because of their personal arguments?

Before the echo of the closing door had died, Agent Scully was on the run toward the charred remains. She brusquely lifted the body parts from the examination table, and laid them on the floor.

"Agent Scully, what the hell are you doing?" Pryce started out of the daze he'd dropped into, reaching out to stop her.

Putting her shoulder into it, she spun the table about, until the long side faced the door. Then she heaved it onto its side, narrowly missing Pryce's foot.

"There," she panted into the microphone, "Now we've got a blockade."

She dropped behind the table, and chambered a round into her pistol smoothly. Pryce dropped down beside her, while Hadat and Whitman cleared off another nearby table.

The other table clanged into the hanger deck, and the USAMRIID doctors drew pistols of their own. She looked over, only to find Major Pryce drawing a small twenty-two caliber pistol from his holster. He looked at the weapon he held, and then over at Scully's large Glock, and then back again. She could almost see his thoughts, as though they were louder now that he was encased in a sealed suit.

"I can't hit a target with anything bigger." Pryce then looked away, and tried to ignore her.

Dana turned off the microphone until her giggles went away.

In teams of two, the SEAL squad leapfrogged down the darkened corridors of level two. Mulder was tagging along with the Lieutenant, his service pistol out and at his side.

He remembered to keep his elbows locked, even when the weapon was down. And there was one in the chamber and the safety off, in case he needed to fire.

Fox only hoped that he wouldn't shoot his own foot. It seemed that between his weekend and now, that was the sort of luck he would get.

He pushed his thoughts of his partner out of his mind as Quiddis gestured to him from across the corridor. They'd come to another intersection, and again the three men would blossom out from the corner like a dark flower.

"Team one, alpha clear." The first intersection past the stairwell to the north was empty.

"Team two, fox-trot clear." The intersection to the south was empty.

"Team three, kilo clear." West too was empty.

The El-Tee shook his fist in the air, and counted down from three on his fingers. When he reached zero, Fox swung around the corner. His heart stopped when he saw the shadow slip around the far corner some thirty feet away.

"Team Four," Quiddis called out as his partner chambered a round into his underbarrel grenade launcher. "Movement at November. Prosecuting contact."

Mulder started down the corridor, noting that it was partially illuminated. A single lit neon light swung by one end from the shattered fixture above it. The walls were pocked with bullet holes, and his thick rubber-soled boots slid about on the spent brass casings underfoot. Fox was shaking from the isolation he felt, the dread at hearing nothing but the rasp of his own breathing. The barrel of the rifle that bobbed along just at his peripheral vision didn't comfort him either.

"Team two," The signal was rough with static. "Golf clear."

They came to the next intersection, where they had seen movement. Intersection Oscar. An odd feeling came over him, a sense of deep foreboding. It made perfect sense to him. He'd managed to upset his friendship with Dana, possibly destroy it. And now he knew he was going to die alone. There would be no one to care about his funeral. The thought seized him abruptly, and shook him violently.

He thought of that for a moment, then dove out into the intersection alone. He slammed back first against the far wall, the air tank knocking the wind from him. It seemed the only thing he could do.

"Mulder," Quiddis whispered. "Shit."

Down the hallway, at the far side of the platform, Mulder saw movement. He flicked on his large light, and unclipped it from his belt. He started down after the shadowy form, while his two teammates swung around the corner after him.

They only had time to see his dark shape disappear through a doorway at the far end. The beam from his flashlight bounced, then disappeared.

"Team Two, Fox-trot Clear!" Their radios cracked sharply, fading in and out.

As Quiddis and his rifleman ran, clumsy in their environmental suits, they kept alert. The Lieutenant just kept his pistol covering each connecting corridor as they ran through.

"Team, Mulder's chasing something, we're in pursuit. ID first, shoot later!" He cursed profligately within the confines of his mind, watching his ordered search and destroy pattern fall apart.

They reached the doorway, seeing the blacked out secondary generators looming inside. Here and there, they saw Mulder's light bouncing in the darkness.

Suddenly, the room lit up with strobing light as the staccato cracks of gunfire echoed past them. Squeals erupted from the room.

Almost simultaneously, there was a low explosion from Platform One.

Quiddis dropped to the floor in a crouch, his man alongside him. "Teams One and Two to Point Juliet. Expedite. Teams Three and Five recon Platform Two."

Quiddis didn't wait for the brittle acknowledgments before he ducked into the generator room, and started sprinting.

Boredom is a soldier's greatest enemy. Dana was bored. Even lengthy stakeouts don't train you not to be bored. They train you to be bored, and still pay attention to details. Fighting requires a complete devotion to barely restrained aggression. The capacity to remain for long periods in position, one pound of pull away from firing.

The entire USAMRIID team, along with Agent Scully, had been waiting alone for only ten minutes. But somehow it was enough time to relax.

Scully would never have thought she was relaxing. The sweat had soaked through her shirt, and it was now sticking to her rubber suit, forming uncomfortable wrinkles against her back. She was pressed against the underside of the dirty little table, and her hand burned from the strain of holding it too tightly. Her arm was getting tired as well.

If she'd looked, she would have seen that Whitman had lowered his gun, and Hadat had the butt of his pistol set against his knee. Only Pryce was still ready.

So when they heard the soft explosion through the hanger doors, everyone jerked upright. Scully realized she'd relaxed somewhat, for every muscle in her body had clenched at the noise, forcing a gasp from her throat.

Then, muffled under the echo of the blast, she could hear several pistol-style gunshots from below her. Only the Lieutenant and Mulder were carrying pistols.

She shot to her feet, ignoring the creaks in her knees. She stopped short when Pryce caught her gun arm, and forced it down. He tried to drag her back into cover, but she fought, hitting his knuckles.

"Let go of me!" She sounded very distant, even to her own ears.

"No! There's a firefight going on down there!" His growl cut through the ripping noise of automatic weapon fire.

"And my partner's in it. Let go!" She pulled her arm free, and for a moment brought her barrel toward him. It moved only a fraction, but she was shocked to realized how out of control she was.

"Listen to me. If you go down there now, they will confuse you with a live target. You'll be a blue on blue. You know what that means, dammit?"

She sank down, scared for her partner, and her own temper. "A victim of friendly fire." She was quoting newspaper verbatim. She could see in her head all too well what horrors could be going on downstairs. She knew what Mulder was walking into. And she was stymied.

Whispering, "What can I do?"

"We wait."

Mulder's heart leapt as the muzzle of his pistol climbed skyward. Each round he fired jerked the gun about in his hands, and illuminated the dank blackness of the room with the burning yellow light of a fire fight.

The flashes of light burned into his eyes, nearly blinding Fox in the darkness. His flashlight gripped tightly in his other hand was being used to brace his firing arm. But even without seeing his target, he knew it was there.

It was screaming.

In the darkness of the of the generator room, Fox had caught sight of its gloss black form gliding lightly over the floor, soundless. In the spot of illumination from his flashlight he'd seen something man-like, but covered in a crenelated black carapace. A long, ridged tail sprouted above biped legs, and long spines or tubes erupted from its back. And the eyeless, elongated head it turned upon him had hissed, and bared the tremendous fangs of its two nested mouths.

It was dragging a human body across the floor behind it.

And now as Agent Mulder emptied his clip into it, it screamed. Not the noises familiar to humans, to mammals, but a high pitched noise, something in between a squeal and a hum. It was a terrifying sound, foreign to his ears. Alien.

The gun locked open, its rounds spent. Fox pressed the lever that ejected the clip, and nothing happened. His thick gloves slid off the matte plastic case. Trembling, Fox watched the shadowy form across the room crouch down and hiss. Never looking away from the thing he managed to release the catch, dropping the empty clip to the floor.

It moved silently toward him, faster than a sprinter. Its abnormally long legs clutched the deckplates as it ran, and it pulled itself along the banks of machinery with skeletal arms. Although he could not see it, the thing's long tail curved about it, over it.

He stumbled backwards, vaguely aware that he could in no way outdistance this thing. All that constituted his world was the metal on metal noise of its claws, and the rush of his breath in the confines of his suit. He fumbled inside his gloves, trying to slap another clip into his pistol.

"No! No, dammit, no!"

The sharp report of a rifle slammed the beast against the metal housing of a large turbine. Green fluid sprayed away from it as it squealed in pain and grabbed at the machinery to pull itself upright.

A second burst of rifle fire came from behind one of the generators, knocking it back down. In deathly silence, an arc of its green blood spun through the air, a drop catching Fox's mask. He noticed that the floor about the body was smoking and hissing.

He finally managed to insert the new clip into his gun when he smelled the acrid, choking fumes of burning plastics. His eyes watered, and he realized that a section of his goggles had melted away, exposing him to the outside air. But the fumes were blinding him, choking him.

Quiddis and his partner came around the corner housing to find Mulder silently struggling to tear away his mask and hood.

"No, don't!" Quiddis tangled himself about Fox's arms, thinking he was fighting claustrophobia. Then he caught sight of the green liquid that was dissolving the agent's mask and he fell back in shock.

Fox tossed the mask to the ground, coughing from the smell of melted plastic. With his head freed from the hood, Fox smelled the hold of the rig for the first time. Oil and metal tang mixed with charred flesh and a bitter, unfamiliar smell.

"Eel-tee, look at this!" The soldier called his officer over toward the alien body.

The body fell through the floor, the metal underneath melted through. All around, the spray of the creature's blood had burned holes through the solid steel machinery, etching the creature's death into the rig.

They had found the cause of the holes in the flooring. They came not from fire, but acid.

Mulder pulled a glove off so he could wipe at his tearing eyes. For a moment he thought of the instantly lethal virus Scully had found in the Bounty Hunter's blood. But he'd been exposed to it, and knew that this wasn't it. This was something completely new.

The loud noises of running feet pounding on the deck preceded the rest of the team into the machine room. All were breathing hard, and scanning the room with their eyes and weapons.

Peirson spoke up. "What the hell was that?" He gestured toward the smoking hole next to his commanding officer.

"Yeah, Mulder," Lt. Quiddis turned to face Fox, who retrieved his still functional radio headset. "You mind explaining that thing?"

Still breathing hard, Agent Mulder joined the team at the edge of the hole, and looked down at the body lying one floor below them. He turned his light on it, and was rewarded my muttered curses from the rest of the team.

Fox's sweat-soaked hair stuck up in various directions as he faced the suited SEAL team. "Well, I guess we found our perp."

"That thing didn't come off no satellite, man!" One of the men pushed his way to the front. His suit read 'Hall.'

"No, it didn't." Mulder holstered his gun, glad now that his gloves and mask were off. The sea air felt cool on his face, even down here. He just hoped Scully could prove the absence of a virus. he didn't want any more time in Decontamination.

"So what is it?" Hall seemed deeply upset. Fox could understand why.

"Well, off the top of my head I'd tend to say it's a space monster. Got a better idea?" The smell of the smoke brought back some of Fox's earlier nausea. He shook his head. "How do we get down there?"

Lt. Quiddis grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Get down there? Are you nuts? We're calling in reinforcements. This is seriously out of our league."

"No." Mulder pulled back, aware of the number of military men about him. "I'm not letting this one disappear into a military crate. This time, we keep the body. Now that it's dead, we take it back for the Bureau to examine." He was tense, rigid.

"What? I . . .?" The Lieutenant saw an intensity in Fox's hazel eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Now help me down there, and we can get out-"

Mulder's words were interrupted by the sound of an asthmatic hiss. The sound rose up from Mulder's side, and was joined by another nearby.

Very quietly, Mulder drew his pistol and threw the safety off. "I think we have company."

"Okay team, back to the stairwell, now! We're outta this mission." The Lieutenant circled his hand in the air, and used silent gestures to direct his teams to fall back.

Mulder was absolutely furious. They had a squad of soldiers, more than enough to find the remaining aliens. And they were pulling out, leaving him behind. He tucked the remains of his mask into his belt, and ran after the soldiers.

The Lieutenant drew a radio from his web belt, and snapped it on with a crackle of static. "This is the insertion team, request immediate evac. Over."

He and Mulder kept their eyes open as they ran through the hallways, half expecting another one of those creatures to await them around every corner.

"Roger. I'll be on station in five minutes. Over." The pilot's voice was robbed of timbre by the radio.

"Roger. Warning, it's a hot LZ." The Lieutenant had to smile inside his mask. This brought a whole new meaning to 'hot.'

Col. White ignored the gunfire shattering the night behind him. He didn't care how the SEALs were doing, he just hoped they were loud enough. They were his decoy.

The site doctor had kept a running radio dialogue with a Coastal Navy Hospital for two days. In the sickbay nearby were his notes, and the biological sample he'd kept. He'd been ordered to collect the notes and samples, and torch the rig. The sealed papers in his vest ordered the _Elliot_ to destroy the rest of the rig, and carry him directly to shore.

All he had to do was get in and out quickly.

Due to the sealed suits the team wore, the SEALs couldn't use nightvision goggles. Instead they were reduced to flashlights taped to the barrels of their weapons. Mulder had brought his huge halogen flashlight, and by virtue of sheer candlepower was elected to take point as the team wound their way back to the stairs.

"On three!" Fox stepped to one side, as Peirson took position directly in front of the steel door.

"Now!"

Fox threw his shoulder into the door, and it slammed against the inner wall of the night-black stairwell. When nothing showed itself, Mulder stepped in front of the soldiers, and swung his light about the small vestibule at the foot of the stairs.

He turned, and waved the SEALs through. "Go! It's clear." Behind the hiss of the sealed suits, and the tromp of gas masks, Mulder heard a faint keening sound.

Quiddis was the last into the stairwell, and he pushed Mulder in front of him. "You too. Get up there now!"

Behind him a dark, glistening form dropped to the floor, just beyond the doorway. Mulder's gun snapped up, seemingly in slow motion as Quiddis recognized the shock and fear on the agent's face.

The muzzle of Mulder's gun had just cleared the lieutenant's shoulder when he started firing. There were screams of shock and outrage from the vaguely insectile apparition, but the bullets whined off its hard shell.

Quiddis dove forward, slamming Mulder against the floor and driving the wind out of him. Simultaneously, the alien leapt, and overshot the two men. It landed with feline grace upon the stairwell as its skeletal tail coiled about it.

Lt. Quiddis was up and running, pulling Mulder along by the collar on his suit. They were just out the door when flashes of gunfire lit the darkened stairs in a hellish strobe.

Fox spun, and fired backwards through the door, still bent on killing the thing. But even as his remaining shells bounced harmlessly off its evil hide, he saw it dance jerkily under the impact of rifle rounds. The SEALs poured fire onto it from the floor above, and managed to pound it back into the ground.

But the lower level and stairs disappeared under ropey gouts of its redolent blood. Thick yellow smoke poured out from the acid-eaten crater that had been Fox's escape, choking him. Lt. Quiddis hefted him as he coughed, and shouldered him even as he yelled to his troops above them.

"You get moving! We'll find another way up!"

"But-"

"Go! That's an order!" With that, Quiddis pounded down a service corridor with Mulder slung over one shoulder. He did not look back.

Quiddis' hard shoulder and air tank pounded Mulder's chest and stomach, hurting worse than the rank smell of burning metal. Still coughing through a painfully tight chest, he pounded on the Lieutenant through his thick suit.

Stopping briefly, Quiddis turned and planted Mulder hard, propping him up against the wall. Fox was still coughing as he unsnapped the safety catches holding his air tank onto his back. With the last one gone, it slid heavily from his shoulders and landed hard upon the deck plates.

"You ready to run?" As the Lieutenant spoke, Mulder found himself thinking about the slick black shape that had leapt over them.

"Damn straight. Where to?" Mulder still coughed with a deep bronchial sound.

In response, the Lieutenant turned and ran, his dark suit nearly disappearing into the darkness ahead.

It suddenly occurred to Fox that in the midst of the confusion, he'd dropped his flashlight somewhere down the corridor. Now it was either melted, or in the midst of some hunting creatures he couldn't kill. Mentally he chalked up yet another destroyed light.

In the darkness, Fox nearly ran into Quiddis' broad back. The man was undogging a large hatch on one side of the corridor. The door was too small for Agent Mulder to help, so he dropped the spent clip and loaded a fresh one into his gun. Useless or not, he wanted a gun.

"Okay, this is the loading bay over to Platform One. Move!" Quiddis threw the door open, chilled by the abrupt silence about them.

Mulder leaped through, his Glock at eye level. He was nearly blinded, surprised to find the lights on at this level. But through the light, he saw nothing, and gestured for the Lieutenant to follow.

Quiddis hopped over the high sill of the hatch, and tried to swing the door closed behind himself. But a hand closed over the door edge, and in the bright light, Mulder got a good look at the thing.

There were too many digits on the dripping hand, and the claws at its tip gleamed more of metal than bone. The tendons and cartilage were stretched taut about the surface of the hand, and its grip nearly snatched the door from the Lieutenant.

The sweat on Fox's face ran cold, and he yanked the damaged mask from his belt. Quickly he shoved the barrel of his short pistol into the rubber mask, and brought it up to the almost mechanical hand at the door.

As he did so, the monstrosity brought its face about the door, and Quiddis let out a high pitched gasp as he faced a nightmare from two feet away. Its glossy carapace extended from a grotesque, lipless mouth to the crown of a long, slick head. The sides and peak of its head were ridged, and again it looked as though the beast's very tendons were wrapped about its skin. But horror arose when it opened a slavering jaw, only to reveal a second set of jaws inside its mouth.

Mulder pushed the mask and barrel up against the creature's hand, and his finger squeezed the trigger over and over. Both he and the creature fell away, both squealing. Fox flung the gun and mask as far away from himself as he could from where he lay on the floor, his face a rictus of pain.

The beast pulled back from the door, giving the Lieutenant a chance to unclip a grenade, and lob it though the opening. Then he dogged the hatch, and ran toward Mulder. The heavy sounds of the thing pounding on the door echoed through the room. Then a blast shook the room, denting the hatch.

Quiddis ran over to Mulder, and dragged Fox's hand up toward his own mask. Bright red blood poured down his hand from a gouge along his index finger, but he was otherwise intact.

"It's just a ricochet, Mulder. Get up now!" He grabbed Fox's elbows, and pulled him upright.

"Where are we going, anyway?" His husky voice was now rough and tight from the pain and smoke.

"Up three decks is a gangway to Platform Two, next to the infirmary. We can fix you up there."

With that, both men started sprinting, Mulder cradling his hand to the heavy plastic of his suit. Behind them lay the smoking ruins of a very fine pistol.

Quiddis hoped that this platform was not lit throughout; he didn't want to see another one of those things clearly, ever again.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 

Peirson and the SEAL team charged through the doorway to the hanger as though the very demons from hell were chasing them. And for the life of him, Peirson wasn't sure whether they were or not.

He dropped instinctively to the deck as a small caliber round whined past his head. His team dove to the sides, save one man. He chambered a round into his grenade launcher, and snapped the weapon to his shoulder. The wide barrel fixed immediately on the overturned tables before them.

"Don't shoot, dammit!" There was no mistaking the woman's voice for any but Dana Scully.

Pryce stuck his head over the barricade, his blank mask bobbing slightly, "Sorry."

The team didn't even pause, nor did Peirson. To a man they charged over the tables and around them as though they ceased to exist. And as far as being possible threats, they had indeed ceased to exist.

"Quick. We're evacing right now." He grabbed the harness holding Scully's air tank, and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go."

Scully spun about, frantic. "Mulder? Where's my partner? Mulder?"

Still holding his rifle, Peirson grabbed her shoulder to get her attention. "He and the El-Tee are stuck, and they're coming up the other platform. Now come on."

With that the dark shape of a Blackhawk helicopter appeared over the edge of the landing platform, its low fuselage coming about. The roar of the engines and high whine of the propeller blades blocked out nearly all noise as the helicopter settled down on the deck.

The SEAL team and USAMRIID doctors surged forward, with Scully and Peirson caught in the middle of the hanger. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to run for the helicopter, for the protection the soldiers offered. But she couldn't just abandon him, no matter what Peirson said.

It was in that moment of taut hesitation that chaos descended.

The loading bay at the base of the oil rig connected all four platforms together. The gaping room sported flats of supplies, and yellow forklifts rusted by the sea air. Well oiled chains hung in black loops from pulleys along the roofline. Condensation and oil dripped in thin strings to rank black pools on the deck. One full side was open to the ocean, with only two sea doors to seal the space. It was not enough to let the sea scrub the decay from the air.

The dank hold was illuminated by the light gray of the impending dawn. It clawed through the narrow slit left between the doors, and spilled out over the shattered boxes Mulder and Quiddis ran around. If they crossed the hold, and if the power lasted here, they might be able to ride the cargo lift up to the third level.

They would not need to ascend into the warren of hallways above them.

Quiddis moved quickly and silently, his heavy boots seeming to whisper in counterpoint to the hammer falls of Fox's own steps. The lieutenant kept his own pistol out and ahead of him, level with his navel.

Fox was never more acutely aware of his own defenselessness as he was then. The rubber suit retained about him a sticky heat that left him panting from exertion. With each step his hand bled out along the front of the P3 suit, and it burned painfully under the pressure of his other hand. His lungs were tight as he bit back the hoarse coughs that might give their position away. Instead he whirled about as they ran, searching all the corners of the room.

It wasn't until he saw the first of the small, ovoid objects on the floor ahead that the skin on his arms and shoulders crawled in alarm. Uniform in shape, they were leathery, and wet with ooze. All were empty, the tops open like fetid petals.

His eidetic memory prompted him with the image of the alien as it descended from above, landing behind Quiddis. He looked up, and froze. His heart clenched inside him, and chills washed over him as he tried to accept what he saw.

The lieutenant drew up short as he realized Fox was no longer beside him. He halted, his gun swinging about for prey. Inside his mask, Quiddis' brow furrowed in confusion. Until he realized that Agent Mulder was looking up.

He looked up, and gasped in terror and revulsion.

The steel beams that comprised the apex of the bay had been encased in a green-gray resin, sculpted into rounded patterns. And as parts of this alien sculpture, the crew of the CGC Prometheus had been embedded in the matrix. Their puffy white deathmasks screamed down at the two men, the silent white eyes too dim to be seen from the ground. But their limbs were snapped, bent backward along their torsos to accommodate their shapes into the alien pattern. They had been jammed into the spaces in the roof, and cemented in place.

And to a man, all had fist-sized, bloody holes in their chests. With a jolt of nausea akin to a physical blow, Quiddis realized that the liquid falling about him and Mulder was not water and oil. It was partially congealed blood and mucus.

Quddis dropped his pistol, and clutched at his chest as he drew choking, gasping breaths. He doubled over, desperately trying not to vomit as the tears flowed from his eyes. Suddenly he was aware of the liquid around his feet, and the sour, salty taste of his own bile.

Fox ran over to Quiddis, and unsnapped the hood from the lieutenant's head. His fingers slipped in the blood from his own wound, which burned like fire as he feverishly worked the air hose connection. Mulder's right forefinger refused to close around the catches, so he pried at them with his left hand. Finally he managed to yank the hood from Quiddis, who was still sucking air in.

When the stale, putrid air first hit him, he heaved. Quiddis grabbed the nearest crate, and emptied his stomach until only acid burnt its way up his throat. Then he felt his stomach lunge painfully into his throat as it tried to clean itself further.

Mulder wasted no time in sweeping up Quiddis' gun, and snapping the safety off. He couldn't hold the weapon in his right hand, and so cradled it in his left. Revolted, Mulder turned in silent circles, not sure if he was watching for an attack or just trying to accept what he saw hanging above him. His head hurt, and the vertigo that accompanied his seasickness returned along with the sense that he was no longer connected to his own body.

Mulder shook the sensation off. "Quiddis?" He got no response.

"Lieutenant? You still with me?" He couldn't afford to glance at the man for fear of overlooking the stealthy approach of a glossy shape.

"Talk to me. Now." Mulder didn't look down as he grabbed Quiddis' mask from the floor, and tucked in into the belt of his suit.

Quiddis gasped, "Shit, man. Oh shit . . . "

Mulder had seen this in the Violent Crimes department, and in studies of some war veterans. Sometimes even the most hardened of people can be shaken to their very core. For some it is the sight of a child's broken body, or a face too similar to a loved one. Sometimes it's just a thought, a smell. Sometimes it takes a nightmare.

Fox grabbed Quiddis by the arm and pulled him upright. Mulder started running across the bay, the lieutenant complying with his insistent tugs. But if Fox let slack his grip, Quiddis slowed down. Fox pushed Quiddis ahead of him, and leaned in close enough to the man that he could smell the vomit.

"If you don't move, we'll die here! Me, I want to see the sun again, so move!"

Perhaps it was the thought of dying in the stinking dark of that hold, or the thought of sunlight that propelled Quiddis. Perhaps it was the armed man waiting for him, bleeding. Whatever it was, the lieutenant blinked, and started running.

"This way!" Quiddis pointed to a small, open sided elevator that had been left six feet off the ground.

They ran across the sticky deck toward the hydraulic lift set into one wall of the bay. The lieutenant got there first, and pulled both his regulation sealed gloves off. Discarding his air tank, he chinned himself up to the level of the platform, and rolled onto it.

Mulder turned around, looking for motion. He saw none, and knew that it did not mean safety. He thought momentarily before engaging the safety on the pistol and hurling it to Quiddis. Then he grabbed the elevator platform and tried to pull himself up.

His right hand burned and slipped. Mulder could feel the red hot blood roll from his hand toward his elbow, tickling him. His full lips locked in a grimace, it was all he could do to try and drag himself partway up. Then the lieutenant grabbed his left elbow, and hauled him onto the platform like a dead weight.

Mulder dragged himself into a sitting position, and clutched at his hand futility. His eyes burned from the effort it had required not to cry out. Instead he let his wracking coughs envelop him, his lungs burning.

Quiddis clicked the scratched and dirtied green button, and the lift jolted into motion upward. He picked up his pistol, and tried to ignore the warmth of Mulder's blood on the grips.

A dark shape fell from the edge of the hanger doors, and drove Hadat into the deckplates. In absolute silence it grabbed the soldier by the arms, lifting him from the deck. Its fanged mouth opened, and the inner teeth sprang out, tearing a hole through the man's suit and head.

In a panic, the next man over unleashed a full volley from his CAR-15 at less than two meters. The creature dropped the decapitated body, and was knocked backward in a spray of green blood.

The soldier dropped his weapon as he staggered backwards, his screams echoing through the hanger. He struggled with the smoking suit, which bubbled and hissed with the acid. His companion dropped his rifle and fought to get the P3 gear off in time.

The pilot's radio call came in strongly, "What the hell was that?" From only meters away, he had seen the thing go down in a tangle of sinewy legs and tail, its teeth gleaming in the predawn light.

Scully dragged Peirson to the ground next to her as she snap fired her pistol at another creature that fell from the ceiling. The thing had dropped down where they had been standing a moment before, and now the horror towered over them, clear drool sliding from its fangs.

Scully's chest closed in on her as she saw for the first time what had killed the crew here, though it some analytical part of her mind she recognized the second set of fangs. Those, she realized, were what had made the wounds on the bodies. Still shocked, she snapped her hand up, and started firing. When her first shots merely glanced from its hide in a shower of sparks, she shot its feet out from under it.

Peirson unlimbered his rifle and brought it up as the alien pulled itself erect. He rolled over on top of Scully, and jammed the muzzle of his M-16 into the creature's belly before triggering a short burst.

The monstrosity was kicked backwards, sprawling in a heap nearby. Its tail lashed briefly as it arched its back. Then the floor gave way beneath the onslaught of acid, and it dropped from sight in a gray-yellow cloud of vapor. Scully winced at the shrill squealing and burning sizzle that accompanied the alien's demise, only to find Peirson choking on top of her.

"Damn," she whispered as she fought the smoke to pull Peirson's suit from him.

He kicked wildly, his choked cries turning to screams as he tore the zipper on his suit halfway open. Dana saw the rubber was falling apart, and red foam bubbled up past the gleaming white of bone on his chest.

She tore the tattered remains of his fatigues off, leaving his still intact mask on. The spray of acid had eaten partially through his rib cage, and his shrieks died out as he went into shock. Doctor Scully stanched the blood with her gloved hands, oblivious to the gunfire around her.

Several aliens had leapt from concealment in the roofing, and a pitched battle now raged across the hanger floor. The things moved quickly enough to transform themselves into sinister blurs in the darkness. All that was seen was their smooth bounding motion, as long claws stretched out for the SEALs.

The team had retreated to the lab, and now the creatures had cut them off from the helicopter. The ear-numbing rips of automatic weapon fire cut off most talking, and with Peirson unconscious, little strategy remained.

The small runoff grate next to Agent Scully snapped upward, and spiraled away across the deck. Two alien hands, elongate and clawed, rose up from the hole, and levered an oblate alien head upward.

Dana gasped. It moved through the narrow opening like Eugene Tooms, flattening itself and pulling. She grabbed Peirson's rifle, realizing that the barrel was corroded and smoking.

She grabbed Peirson by the harness, ignoring the flashes of gunfire, and pulled him away from the alien. By the time she'd moved some fifteen feet, it had emerged from the conduit, and crouched on the deck. A razor-tipped tail coiled over its head, and its claws grasped convulsively at the air.

The grenade launcher slung under the rifle seemed intact to Dana. She pumped a round into the chamber, hoping it worked like a shotgun.

The alien pounced as she fired.

Col. White used a disposable plastic pen to push the sample into a plastic bag. There was no way he would touch the thing that he'd found on a dissection tray.

It was a flat, hand-like organism with eight legs, each resembling elongate fingers. But where a wrist should be, there was only a long tail, contorted in death. The ghastly part was the 'palm' of the creature, a surface covered with vestigial gills, and ruddy-colored soft organs.

He had no idea what the damn thing did, and didn't care. He simply sealed the biohazard bag like he'd been shown, and clipped it to his belt. There it bounced next to similar bags containing the medical and captain's logs, and a vial of blood.

The generator had maintained the lighting in the clinic, but the discarded bodies had already discolored. Their blood pooled like curdled milk about the floor, and the smears along the wall hardened to a deep brown in the silence.

For all the slices of hell the Colonel had seen, or been party to, this small rig was by far the worst. The rec room he'd past had looked entirely normal, save for the spray of russet blood across one white wall. And the charnel smell was nauseating inside the claustrophobic enclosure. But it was the sensation that eyes followed him from room to room that had retracted his scrotum in fear.

As he swept the countertop clear and placed a thermite charge next to the alcohol containers, some lizard-like portion of his mind screamed danger. And he trusted his instincts more than any man he'd ever worked with.

Quiddis stopped the open lift at the second floor, rather than ascending the last twenty feet. He just could not bring himself to pass within feet of the Prometheus crew. As it stood, they were hung far too close for comfort.

"What are you doing?" Fox's voice was raspy from the smoke, and he was too light headed to project much noise.

"I'm sure not getting closer to that . . . whatever the hell it is." Quiddis gestured toward the collection of bodies.

"You get out here. I'll meet you on the next level." Mulder didn't look up.

"No chance. You're coming with me." Quiddis cranked open the door, and examined the shadowed hallway.

"Nice thought. You give me a hand up?" Agent Mulder was pale, and the blood-wet hand Quiddis grabbed was cold and clammy.

"Let's go. I'm driving." Fox tried to chuckle as the lieutenant hefted him to his feet, but instead he drew a hissing breath as his wound was pulled open.

Quiddis dragged Mulder ten feet before the Special Agent collapsed. The lieutenant felt his throat, and noticed Fox's hands shaking. He was lapsing into shock, and quickly. On a hunch, the lieutenant felt the soft plastic that covered Mulder's suit with the back of his hand. In the darkness, the blood slick was as black as night.

The wound on Mulder's hand was bleeding out, he realized. He'd been pouring out his life blood across the suit as he ran. And now he couldn't run any farther.

Quiddis stripped off his own P3 suit, and kicked it across the hall. Underneath, he was as lean as Fox, but wearing a thin camouflage blouse and togs. He snapped the clasps on the blouse, tossing it carelessly to the ground.

"Damn. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!" He hoped there weren't any viri on the rig.

His eyes flickered nervously up and down the hall as he whipped his undershirt over his head, and wrapped it about Mulder's hand. The lieutenant looked more closely as he tied the cotton shirt about Fox's hand, and saw an exit wound at the base of his palm. The agent bit down on his lip, but his eyes were still clear when he looked up.

"Done." Quiddis tossed his open blouse on, and retrieved the pistol. "Now get up."

"Nice bedside manner. 'Gotta introduce you . . . to my partner."

"Great, save it for later. We're going back to the elevator, man"

The M-203 grenade launcher did indeed work like a shotgun. An enormous shotgun.

Dana gasped as the recoil kicked her to the ground. The rifle tried to leap from her grip, but she knew to let it rise only to her shoulder. Her stomach hurt from where the rifle butt struck her, and through the smoke and her tears she could not see where the alien had gone.

The wind from the helicopter's rotors swirled aside the cloud of cordite, revealing a smoking hole in the deck metal. The blast had hurtled the creature twenty feet before killing it. And despite her intense dislike of hunting, she grinned ferally at the smoking remains.

She chambered another round into the launcher with a swift pump of the grip, and returned to dragging Peirson aside.

Soun joined her, the Steyer impossibly large even against his own size. Each took a shoulder of the downed man's suit, and started dragging him. Scully looked up, but could not see Soun's expression though his darkened mask. She imagined he was as pale as she.

The team swept the hanger, searching for more creatures on the prowl. The Blackhawk pilots kept unsteady eyes on the roof of the hanger. They could not yet believe what they'd seen.

Which is why the men in the helicopter never saw the glistening forms rising from beside them. Two shapes bounded effortlessly over the railing on the far side of the landing platform. The pilot's mercifully short scream echoed with him as the first one dragged him back over the ledge.

The copilot spun in his armored seat, only to find a second demonic face grinning at him from where the pilot once sat. In one hand it clutched the frayed end of the pilot's restraining harness, while the other splayed six long fingers across the cockpit instrumentation. The fanged mouth opened to reveal a second set of salivating fangs.

In blind panic, the copilot grabbed the red double loop between his legs, and yanked hard. He'd seen the firefight nearby, and although he had no idea what the hard black thing next to him was, he knew what it could do. So he triggered his ejection seat.

The explosive bolts kicked the helicopter propellers free, sending them tumbling out horizontally. Soun and Scully flattened themselves, Dana tossing herself across her patient. One of the thirty foot long composite blades slashed through the back wall of the hanger, tearing the stairwell apart.

No one had time to determine the course of the other blades, for the top of the Blackhawk fired up and back in a burning hiss, and the copilot's seat rocketed into the air on a pillar of white fire. His arm and leg restraints had dragged the pilot's limbs in close to his body, but the force of his arcing departure bounced his head about on his shoulders, knocking his breathing mask free.

The graceful curve of the chair was spun off kilter by the vicious black form drawing itself up to the eyes of the bound and helpless pilot. It seemed totally oblivious to the emerging parachute as it grabbed the copilot's helmet. Then the two fell beyond the range of anyone's vision, into the sea.

Without the helicopter blades to weight the engine, it seized and locked, its dying whine mixing with the heavy sounds of ball bearings destroying themselves. The team was left to stand there, staring at the denuded chopper, its ejection system sending up a stream of smoke into the dawning sun.

White grabbed the examination table to brace himself as multiple explosions rocked the oil derrick. There was a particularly apt Farsi curse he'd learned once, something about having interesting friends, that flashed though his mind suddenly.

The SEAL team was far more effective against these creatures than he'd been led to believe, and now White realized that he was out of time.

He abandoned his small detonator charges on the counter top, his bomb setting plans forgotten. Now he had to get off the rig before the Navy strike team brought the roof down upon his head.

The quickest way down to the moon pool was the small lift that ran down to the loading bay. The sample bags bounced against his hips as he padded quickly toward the corridor. White banished all but thoughts of survival as he rejoined the war zone.

No fear, no remorse, no concerns. Just his raised weapon, and the path to the loading bay.

Mulder lay still on the dank metal grating of the lift, his breathing slow and shallow. His face was sallow, and beaded with the sweat that wet his dark hair and gathered on his eyebrows. Quiddis was locked into a tight shooter's stance over Fox, his camie blouse open over his thin dark torso and his pistol before him. But he took no note of Mulder's condition, for his eyes were locked with morbid fixation above him. Where the lift carried them closer to the remains of the Prometheus' crew.

A crewman's snapped arm dangled downward at them, its desiccated fingers caught in a claw of pain. The gray-white flesh clung loosely to the thin bones of the hand, reminding Quiddis of a dozen horror films.

Allah, he prayed, get me out of this, and I promise I will never watch a John Carpenter film again. Ever.

The lift halted with a short screech of metal and a sudden lurch. The hand was within arms reach of Quiddis. And now he was close enough to see the face in the shadows beyond the body, partially entombed in the murky resin. Never had he seen a more pure expression of mortal terror, for the boy's lips had pulled back from the teeth, and the eyes had clouded over as the body screamed eternally in death. Quiddis shivered, and jumped as the lift door opened on its own.

Quiddis whipped about, dropping to one knee near Mulder. The figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the corridor as it snapped a weapon to its shoulder. Suddenly it pitched over backwards, cutting lose a brief burst of small arms fire over the lieutenant's head as it fell.

Quiddis pounced, his loose blouse flapping as he pinned the form's wrist with a booted foot. His weight trapped the man's MP5 uselessly against the ground. Now visible in the dim light from the hall, Quiddis saw that it was Glad whom he had trapped under his gun. He also noticed that it had been Mulder's left hand wrapped around Glad's foot that had pulled the man off balance. The lieutenant decided to keep his pistol trained on the man he knew as Glad.

"Thanks Mulder. So, dead man," Quiddis turned his attention to Glad again. "Wanna try explaining the warm welcome home?"

"You surprised me. You going to let me up?" Col. White sounded keyed up, and embarrassed. He sounded flawless.

"Yeah, next week. What are you doing here?" Sweat ran down the young lieutenant's face.

"My job. We don't have time for this now lieutenant. It's time to get moving before we get bagged." In the faltering light of the medical level, Col. White's eyes were unflaggingly honest, almost beseeching as he talked.

"Drop the gun." The lieutenant's voice was shaken, unsure. He adjusted his grip on the gun, conscious of the sticky blood on the grip. In reply, the Colonel dropped his machine gun, and spread his fingers wide.

"Happy? Good, now let's get out of here. I got a baby girl I kinda' want to see some more." White wished he could take his eyes from the lieutenant in order to check out Mulder. He knew the Federal agent wouldn't be this quiet if he wasn't hurt badly. But he did not know if it was enough to insure he'd complete his mission.

Quiddis felt the chill, wet air of the rig against his skin, and it suddenly struck him that his back was turned to that hideous mass of human bodies. He felt with chilling certainty that eyes were upon him, watching him. Looking down, he could tell that Mulder was unconscious, or nearly so. As a soldier, Quiddis knew how limited his options were.

He stepped to one side, and held out a tanned hand for Glad. "All right, lets get out of here."

Col. White stood up slowly, and casually picked up his gun, holding it nonchalantly to the side. He smiled warmly at Quiddis, concern in his eyes. "What happened to Mulder?"

"He's lost a lot of blood on the way, sir. I don't know what to do." Quiddis was damn uncomfortable. He'd just been interrogating a superior officer at gunpoint, and now he was reporting to this man, his shirt open, exposing broad tanned muscles. He was scared, alone, and wanted his team badly.

"You're doing a fine job son. Now, let's get to the catwalk quickly. You take Mulder, I'll take point. Move!" The Colonel knew how comforting orders could be in the middle of a crisis, and he used that fact. He could not let them realize where he'd been going, and he couldn't be sure of killing Quiddis without being wounded himself. He would have to distract the younger man, and take him down quickly. So he set out first, keeping his back turned to the SEAL. After all, wasn't he so much more trustworthy that way?

Quiddis took one of Fox's arms and one of his legs in hand, and hefted the agent over his shoulders. Fox still wore the dark rubber contamination suit, and its large size made it difficult for him to hold on to the thin man inside. He had to holster his pistol before he could get Mulder up onto one shoulder.

"I'm ready to go!" he called out to White.

"Yes. You are."

Scully snapped into motion first, still dragging the limp and bloodied form of Peirson toward the remainder of the team. Soun was right with her, taking the fallen man by the legs, and lifting him clear of the deck. In short order, the SEALs had the wounded and able men gathered together amidst the smoking rubble that had been a hanger.

The group of weary men left standing amidst the carnage were mute with shock, and Dana did not need for them to remove their masks for her to know what their eyes said. The sea is a deadly lover, and all who go to her know that perhaps her embrace will be the last they know. And no one becomes a soldier without the knowledge that their art is one of killing, and it is an art that demands to be washed in blood. But even amongst these sailor-soldiers, what they had seen had stripped away too much certainty, too much safety. That they stood alive in the end did not matter, for the sun rising bloodshot across the sky was now a distant thing.

No more a yellow light in the sky, but a red star. A reminder that things lived elsewhere. Things whose knowledge of killing matched our own. Things that terrified them.

Dana had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with all of this right now. Instead, she had to get these people off the rig, and back to a competent medical facility. And she had to find her partner, whom she was still cursing mentally.

"Will somebody get on the radio and hail the _Elliot_?" As one, the seven men left standing turned toward her.

"That's a great idea, lady. But it ain't going down." Soun adjusted the sling holding his rifle alongside him before unsealing and removing his mask. Underneath was a broad, brown face and glittering black eyes.

"What? We need to get Peir- people off this rig." Scully could smell herself inside the suit, and the sound of her breathing was driving her mad.

"Yeah. But Lt. Quiddis has the radio, and he still hasn't joined the party." Soun stripped himself of his gloves, and tossed them to the deck. Behind him the rising red sun lit the men in blood, and revealed the high clouds to the south.

Dana blinked under her mask and assessed her situation. Mulder and Quiddis were trapped somewhere down in the hold, and they carried the only radio large enough to reach her uncle's ship. Then she counted the men out under her breath. In a corner, Dr. Whitman was trying to suture Major Pryce's scalp wound. Five SEALs were left standing, and Peirson was their only wounded teammate. There was no trace remaining of the other SEALs or Dr. Hadat. Peirson moaned faintly.

Dr. Scully ran to the nearest medkit, and carried it back to the wounded soldier. Kneeling down, she stanched the flow of blood, which was small. The acid had cauterized the wound. Dana played fast and loose with the antibiotic shots and gels, as she wrapped his ravaged chest in yards of gauze.

Inside her slick P3 gloves, Dana could barely wind the gauze. After a few more passes, she ripped her gloves off and tossed them across the deck. Scully didn't have time to hunt through the wreckage for surgical gloves, so she just prayed that Peirson had been judicious in his private life. Working with her bare hands in the cold dawn air, she managed to hold Peirson together, his blood hot on her hands. But she knew what would happen to him without immediate emergency care.

Still kneeling, Scully slumped back until she rested uncomfortably on her feet. The heavy boots bit into her backside through the rubber suit, and her breath had begun to fog up her goggles. Additionally, her shoulders were raw from the weight of her air tank. At a glance, the gauge on her wrist told her that she had twenty minutes of air remaining.

Dana struggled to pull her air tank off, and then stripped the mask off with it. The chill sea air hit her sweating face like a blow, and she closed her eyes. She sucked the air in through parted lips, and the crisp smell cleaned out her lungs. She wanted desperately to push the auburn strands of hair from her face, and take out the tight ponytail from her hair, but the blood on her hands precluded that. _Mulder_, she thought, _where the hell are you?_

Opening her eyes, she realized that no one had moved. All the ranking officers were wounded or missing, and now all eyes dropped on her. She looked down.

Peirson lay crumpled across the oily hanger floor, his suit and fatigues in tatters. Crimson stains spread slowly over the white bandages wound about his chest. But his mask and air tank remained on him. Dana didn't have the energy to unstrap them. Besides, the bandages wound over the air tank's straps in several places.

Looking back up, Dana again met the gaze of the team. Slowly, one by one, they pulled their masks off. Apparently, they were all convinced that this was not a viral problem.

"Okay. We need to be looking for the Lieutenant and Agent Mulder." She locked her gaze with each man briefly, her eyes ice blue.

Soun stepped forward. "The Lieutenant ordered us to wait here."

Agent Scully let a hint of anger creep into her voice. "Lieutenant Quiddis didn't anticipate losing the helicopter. We need to get out of here before that storm," Dana pointed to the gathering clouds on the horizon, "hits the rig."

All the men cursed softly under their breath. Whitman looked panicked as he started blinking rapidly at the sky.

"I take it you have a good idea?" Soun unlimbered his Steyer and rested its length against his own square frame.

"Yes. Whitman and two others stay up here with the wounded. Everybody else comes with me to go find the Lieutenant." And Fox, she said only within her own mind.

Mulder tried several times to grab Quiddis' beltloops as the SEAL ran. He was hanging upside-down over the soldier's shoulder like a duffel bag, and as weak as a kitten. His head was pounding in time with his racing heart, and his sight wavered in and out as they moved. To exacerbate the problem, Quiddis carried Fox through pools of light and shadow, down shattered corridors the federal agent hazily remembered.

The only thing that kept Fox conscious at all was the certainty that Glad was nearby, and that Quiddis trusted him. For Mulder, it was one thing to trust the SEAL team. They were soldiers, first and foremost. For them, the duty was to protect their country from foreign invaders. But Glad. . . Undoubtedly he felt he served his country. But Fox wondered just who Glad thought the enemy was.

The waves of nausea and vertigo that washed over Mulder held him in check. Weak from his loss of blood, Fox couldn't summon the energy to make a commotion. And the Lieutenant was too focused upon his objective to take notice of Fox's soft motions. The SEAL was entirely oblivious to the danger he was carrying them both into.

As Fox watched yet more gray hallway blur before his eyes, he resolved that he'd wait. He'd outlast Glad, and beat him at his own game. Agent Mulder swiftly lost consciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

Agent Scully had the dark gray gunbelt Peirson had handed her settled about her waist before the sun had cleared the horizon.

She'd discarded the bulky P3 suit, and instead was down to a smelly pair of jeans and short shirt. In the face of the chill sea wind, she regretted not having more to wear, but many of the needed supplies had been stowed in the lab boxes that had been destroyed in the battle. She'd let her ragged and wild auburn hair down from the tie which had bound it under her mask. She hoped that maybe the comfort would help. Peirson's grenade launcher had been salvaged from his rifle, and attached to the weapon of Petty Officer Connley. Dana in turn had picked up the rifle of a dead man in a rubber suit. She didn't want to look at the name on the front of his togs.

For years, Dana's older brothers had taught her to hunt game, and use rifles and shotguns. She'd learned to hate killing defenseless creatures. Then she had joined the FBI, and they showed her how to use a pistol, and even her own hands. And Fox Mulder showed her that there was still some game that needed to be hunted. Dana swallowed sharply, and hoped she kept all those lessons inside her still.

Soun, Connley, and one other soldier were going to lead the way. Dana was going with them in case the lieutenant or Mulder was hurt. Privately, Dana knew her partner was hurt. He always stood in the path of danger. She was only worried as to the extent of his injuries.

Two SEAL team members were staying to watch after the wounded. And Whitman should be able to take care of both Pryce and Peirson. But the hands that kneaded the rubber grips on her rifle were stained russet under the nails, and Scully couldn't help but worry about the charge she left with an inexperienced doctor.

The top of the stairwell was rent, and opened to the red morning sky. Long shards of helicopter blade had disintegrated upon impact, leaving carbon fibers and char embedded in the rig's structure. But the light filtering through the blast damage illuminated the route Dana and the soldiers were forced to use when looking for Mulder and Quiddis.

Dr. Scully watched the three men before her descend the debris covered steps. Their green fatigues glowed a dull gray under the red sky, and the dark barrels of their weapons gleamed. Then she followed quickly behind them, not wanting to be any great distance from the amassed firepower they represented.

The staircase quickly swallowed any light as the four descended, and just as quickly it consumed all noise. Dana was all too conscious of the heavy pounding made by the soldiers feet, out of rhythm to the sounds of her heart in her ears.

Dana pivoted sharply at each landing, and brought her rifle to her shoulder. She remembered the Bust House at the Academy in Quantico all too well. But if she forgot to check the corners here, it might well be her last mistake.

"All right, level three here." Soun called out in a whisper over Scully's earpiece. "We go through on three, and it's a straight two-by-two advance to the far end. Doc, you're with me."

Dana nodded to the square Asian man as she brought her rifle up. She then realized that the entire team was pointing weapons at the one door. Dr. Scully bit her lip, then swung the light rifle upwards, to cover the stairway she'd just descended.

There was no need to take chances.

She found herself holding her breath as Soun kicked open the hatch.

Quiddis kept his bare forearm behind Mulder's knees, and his shoulder planted firmly in the agent's stomach. With Fox tossed over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the lieutenant was able to keep up with the pace Glad set.

Colonel White didn't mind being called Glad. He'd been called a lot of things. None of them bothered him anymore. Not in a day and age where he was called un-American for defending his country. Actually, he rather liked the name Sergeant Glad.

White continued to lead the two men toward the catwalk connecting Platforms One and Two. It was a narrow walkway with high railings. He knew the lieutenant would have a difficult time turning around on such a catwalk now that he was carrying a deadweight. And once the Colonel had shot both men, the sea below would consume the evidence.

Now all he had to do was get there.

Seamen Meyers and PO 2nd Connelly were the first through the hatch and into the third floor. In dead quiet, they ran to the next intersection before throwing themselves against the deckplating. Meanwhile, Scully and Soun were pressed back to back, covering the soldiers and the stairs.

Then Dana was running with Soun, her head ringing as they passed the soldiers, and dove for the next intersection. She had barely hit the floor before the first two men bounced to their feet and ran past in a crouch.

Dr. Scully remembered that she was supposed to provide covering fire for them. She had to keep her focus on any threats.

In the space of a few feet, she'd gone from a firefight into a warrior's mentality. Despite all her precious acumen, she was forced to close off all thought beyond these three men, and the remaining feet to the outside hatch.

She scrambled into a low crouch, the shrouded bulk of Soun and his squad support weapon beside her. He used hand gestures to speak, and she picked up with him and his men quickly.

Almost before she could think about it, Dana found her back thrown up against the outside wall next to the gangplank door. The metal, like the air, chilled the sweat on her skin. She didn't want to drag her left hand from the rifle stock just to sweep back her errant red bangs, so she shook her head back against the gray steel wall.

It felt damn good.

And not just the chill metal, but the blood in her ears, in her face. The way her teammates seemed to move in slow motion about her. The tight, cold, liquid feeling inside her chest. For a moment, she knew why these men had chosen this life.

"Okay, the gangway. One at a time, and keep sharp." Soun whispered in her ear, and there was no sensuality to it. Just intensity.

She breathed deeply, and barreled through the open door, into the light.

Glad slid effortlessly along the darkened hallway like a wraith. The taut strap held his gun low, and his rolling gait barely moved the barrel. He was economy of movement, with only the flickering of a single fluorescent distantly lighting his features to give him animation.

Quiddis was stunned as he watched, the skill displayed before him almost washing aside his grubbier concerns. Then his eye caught upon the gently swaying bags at Sergeant Glad's waist, and he was returned to his own thoughts.

Mulder's weight was no grave distraction for the Lieutenant, and instead served to focus him upon the situation at hand. In any other place, Quiddis would have followed Glad with the trust implicit in the chain of command. Now he was carrying a trusted civilian and federal agent over his shoulder in a dead retreat from demonic creatures his mother would have sermonized about. And rather than run in blind fear, he gave himself something to think about, to light the darkness pressing in with chill fingers about him.

He knew from his experience with his men how people worked on an instinctive level. He knew Fox Mulder did not trust Glad. And it made him think.

He'd done too many dark deeds at the bidding of his government not to know that Glad had been sent with a separate agenda. The ripstop nylon and Teflon bags at his waist merely confirmed this.

Glad disappeared around a corner. Moments later, a uniformed hand curved back into view, beckoning Quiddis on. He paused to feel Fox's thready pulse before jogging onward. On a hunch, he stopped momentarily to draw his weapon, and remove the safety. Then he held it pinned against his chest, hidden by the bulk of Mulder's thighs.

It wasn't actually distrust of Glad, he believed. Just an active sense of caution.

Around the corner, Glad halted Quiddis with an abrupt wave of his hand. Quiddis nearly drew his weapon, his shoulders tight. Then he realized that Glad was staring into the gathering light at the end of the corridor, and stopped.

"Okay, here we go. I lead up to the door," Glad gestured to the shattered remains of the hatch he'd demolished to enter the Platform. "And then you go through first. I'll cover you."

"Your work?" Quiddis nodded in the semi-darkness toward the smoking hatch. The smell of composite explosives still scarred the air.

"Yeah. You like?" He smiled.

"Yeah." Quiddis grinned in return. He was confused by the dual vision of the affable companion he saw before him, and the viper he'd seen reflected in Mulder's eyes.

"My favorite part of the job." Glad patted the Lieutenant on the shoulder, scant inches from the hidden gun. Then Glad darted down the corridor, trading stealth for speed.

He tossed himself against the wall near the doorway, and gestured to Quiddis to join him. The bright light through the door nearly blotted out all sight of Glad.

Quiddis knew he had to be illuminated perfectly to Glad. He thought of the gun he had hidden, and burned with shame. What the hell was he thinking, he wondered.

With a burst of speed, Quiddis slammed his right shoulder painfully hard into the wall. He had to do so in order to save Mulder from the pounding.

Glad checked his weapon surreptitiously. "Go, quick!"

Quiddis bit his lip, and ran out onto the planking between platforms One and Two.

Scully charged onto the planking just as Quiddis burst through from the other side. Both stopped abruptly, starring at one another across thirty feet of rusted white grating.

For a moment even the freezing wind seemed to stop, and the ruddy light of daybreak painted Agent Scully in the rich hues of the Impressionists. It seemed her flaming hair billowed about her umber shirt, and Quiddis was transformed into a chiseled statue, his blouse snapping away from his bare torso.

Then Dana's blue eyes caught the Lieutenant, and saw through him. She swung a rifle to her shoulder in a motion seemingly too slow for words. But Quiddis couldn't seem to think of why this beauty before him was trying to kill him.

His hand twitched on his pistol, and his heart leapt.

Colonel White was damn sorry to kill Quiddis. The young man seemed genuinely nice. And he was a patriot. It didn't matter that he'd die in service to his country. Men like that, he felt, could do so much more for America than die meaninglessly. But his orders were clear.

He was sorry Mulder was unconscious. An insufferably smug traitor like that should see what came his way. And he didn't deserve to fall amidst heroes like Lt. Quiddis.

White reminded himself that none of this was personal before swinging into the doorway. He brought his gun up, and had it pointed at the Lieutenant's back before he realized the younger man was stopped in his tracks.

Glad remembered another back, frozen in his mind. The last time he'd seen a soldier freeze like that was before the blast in an ambush. It was that same, useless premonition of death that had cost White a point man.

Then Quiddis fell to the ground, the Special Agent a boneless rubber-suited mass atop him. The narrow steel railings kept them from dropping to less than knee height, but it was enough.

Enough to reveal Dana Scully leveling a loaded CAR-15 at Glad.

White let his small weapon yammer out a burst at Scully as she dropped to the deck. The rounds knocked the man behind her down, his rifle firing mindlessly into the clean sky.

For a moment, White realized that Dana's small form was out of sight behind the bodies of the two men he'd tried to kill. Then he realized he could simply fire through the three at this range, and dropped his sights down onto Fox Mulder's unconscious back .

And the low gray plastic shape of a Steyer Squad Support Weapon led Soun about the far door. The enraged SEAL triggered off a rolling burst on full automatic before he'd acquired a target.

He didn't care. He had fifty rounds of NATO standard heavy that promised him no man would shoot at his team. And what could a gun do to him, next to the aliens he'd just seen?

The thunder of the Steyer rolled over the wind and seasong. Its star-shaped blasts swung across Col. White, who'd abandoned all hope of winning out.

One of the high powered rounds kicked a spray of blood from White as he threw himself off the gantry. It was the worst dive he'd ever made in his life, and the last.

Scully hadn't realized she'd fired until half of her thirty-round magazine was gone. The whine of bullets still echoed in her ears as she swept the sea she'd fired into.

Her mouth went dry. She realized she had just fired into the ocean, praying that she would hit Sergeant Glad.

The moans from around her on the slippery gangplank snapped the impending tears from her eyes. She turned, and saw the Petty Officer, Connley sprawled across the small plank, one arm sticking out into empty air.

Dana tossed her rifle over one shoulder, and crawled over to him. She didn't trust her legs to carry her unassisted. The boy had three crimson holes in the canvas of his blouse, and she tore the large buttons apart to get to the wounds.

Three bullet holes clustered between his nipples, and hissed as he breathed. He was mercifully unconscious, but Dr. Scully watched the thin ropes of blood fall into the water far below.

Dana looked up at Soun, who fitfully trained his gun on the sea beneath them. Their eyes met for a moment, and Dana shook her head softly. Then he returned to his watch, and she to her patient.

"Meyers, take Connley." Soun's soft voice was tightened, thickened.

"Soun! This man cannot be moved." Dana tried using blood-wet cloth to seal the holes in his chest, fighting the steady collapse of his lungs.

"And we can't stay on this bridge. Not with more of those things running around." Soun pulled Scully to her feet with one thick hand.

"Both of you, stand down!" Quiddis stood up, laying Mulder at his feet. The two jumped from where they stood toe to toe. "We've got wounded, and the hospital is on this level. We'll just do a little recon in force. Soun get me Connley's rifle."

Quiddis shouldered Mulder again, and Meyers dragged Connley along toward the rig hospital. Scully couldn't do much to carry, so she instead kept furious watch down the dark corridors. And Soun hefted his Steyer as though he wanted something to shoot.

The Lieutenant felt as though he were lost, and making up the rules as he ran. He was jogging back down darkened corridors, retracing his steps. He'd had no time to ask about the shooting on the bridge. One moment he'd seen Scully, the next Glad had opened fire. He was fairly certain the first shots he'd heard had come from behind him.

Dr. Scully was fairly burning with righteous anger. A soldier had just tried to kill her, and instead fatally wounded the man being dragged behind her. Her partner, Fox, was dangling in front of her, blood covering his sealed suit, and she couldn't do a thing. Just wait until she reached the hospital. It felt as though everyone about her conspired to keep her from saving these men.

She knew Fox would smile thoughtfully at her dreaming of conspiracies. Then she saw the pale face and bloody hand swing from Quiddis' shoulder, and blinked back tears.

"Move faster, dammit." She hardly recognized her own voice inside the gruff words.

Soun's retort was swallowed by a sickening squealing from behind her. She snapped her head back, and saw Soun firing down a connecting corridor. Then she found her back pressed against his, the violence of his rifle shaking her. Dana kept her eye on Quiddis and Mulder ahead of her, covering them. Soun and Meyers could take the rear.

Still back to back, Soun and Dana advanced sideways down the suddenly quiet corridor. Meyers pranced backwards, searching the hallways with wild eyes. There was no sign of Connley's body. One moment Meyers had been dragging his teammate, the next he'd been torn away. Into the darkness.

Before her, Quiddis jogged forward with Mulder over one shoulder. He hadn't even turned as the gunfire erupted. Somewhere inside Scully, this touched an animal instinct, and scared her down to the soles of her feet.

"Lieutenant." Dana hissed at his broad back, so like Mulder's. "Lieutenant!"

"Soon. We'll be there soon." His voice wavered unsteadily.

Before Scully could formulate a reply, he'd slid Mulder to the ground, and tossed open a door quickly. He wordlessly slid into the lighted hospital, unlimbering his assault rifle.

Scully ran to Mulder, while Soun took up a firing position near the battered metal door. He waved Meyers through the doorway in pursuit of their wayward Lieutenant.

The hospital was lit, and the open doorway spilled some ghastly illumination across Mulder's waxen face. Dr. Scully dropped to her knees beside her partner, and quickly ran her fingers along his throat and forehead. He was cold, and his pulse was thready. She hesitated to remove the blood-soaked bandage from his hand.

Instead she silently felt along his sparse frame. She could find no other injuries, no broken bones. The rubber suit needed to come off, but not now. Not until she had him warmed up. From the gray cast to his lips, she guessed that he'd lost a large quantity of blood.

Again.

The SEALs called out that the hospital was clear, and then Meyer was dragging Mulder inside. No sooner did his boots clear the doorway than Soun slammed and locked the heavy metal door. Now it was Dana's turn to take charge.

The room reeked of alcohol, and the floor was a mess of papers and broken glass, but Dana ignored them. The outer room was a simple examination room, and Scully felt that it would do. She didn't want to waste the time trying to find a better location.

She pulled a board out from the end of the padded exam table for Mulder's legs, and turned to Meyers and Soun.

"Lift him up here. Lieutenant, can you find the refrigerator?" When no answer was forthcoming, Soun moved off to look for the cooler.

Scully snapped on a pair of the disposable latex gloves that were in a cardboard box nearby. She was sweating from the stress of getting here, and had no time to sweep her hair back. But she tried to push these things from her mind, along with the image of Connley's blood pouring out of him. Along with a lot of things.

Unwinding the bloody shirt from Mulder's right hand revealed a marginal entrance wound between his thumb and second digit. The hole was ragged, indicating that it was not a simple gunshot. Turning his hand over, she spotted a matching exit wound near his wrist, along his palm. This was the point he'd bled out from. She guessed that the projectile had fractured some of the carpal bones in his hand, and possibly compromised one of the major veins along the wrist.

That meant surgery, and immediately.

"You," Scully nodded toward the remaining soldiers as she applied pressure to Fox's hand. "What's your name?"

"Meyers, ma'am." He was quiet as he watched her.

"Okay Meyers. I need you to apply pressure here while I get set up. Got it?" She hoped first aid was a regular course for these guys.

"Yes ma'am." Meyers hoped to the task with the speed of a duty nurse. Scully was impressed.

Soun returned with four liters of Type O whole blood. "These work?"

Scully didn't answer. She simply tagged the tubing into the bottom of the first liter, and started an IV, leaving the bag at Fox's side. Then she felt for his pulse, and began squeezing the bag in time with his heart. He'd lost enough blood that he couldn't wait for it to simply flow into him.

"Good. Soun, you go find the drug cabinet, and smack it open. Should be a part of the refrigerator." Soun nodded. Scully couldn't see it though; she was dragging up a rolling cart loaded with shining steel implements. "Get a couple of small bottles, labeled morphine."

"Shit." Soun muttered it under his breath as he headed out. If she wanted the man down completely before she got to work, then it wasn't good.

By the time he'd returned, she'd started a second IV into Mulder's other arm, and was tying a surgical mask around Meyer's head. Her own hung about her neck, at odds with the sway of her hair. Soun scattered the ampules of morphine on the surgical tray next to Doctor Scully.

She pushed Meyers aside, started cleaning out Fox's wounds. For the moment, his bloodstained rubber suit was a blessing, because it gave her a surface to place Mulder's hand on.

"Soun, you know how to start an IV drip?" Scully's voice was almost relaxed, like a soldiers as she spoke. Cool, but not cold.

"No. Meyers, you run it.." Soun stepped back out of the way momentarily.

"Good. Hang it for twenty mils an hour." She reached across Mulder's prone form to grab a clamp from the tray. She snapped it on a slashed vein, and set to work sewing Fox Mulder back together.

Soun found his lieutenant standing in the doorway of the doctor's office. His rifle lay amongst the broken glass and crumpled papers on the floor. Quiddis himself was slumped in upon himself, staring into the room Soun could not see.

Soun called out to the taller man from a distance. "El-tee. watcha' got?" He was glad that this team was lax about protocol. It gave him a chance to talk with his officer.

"You take a look around here?" Quiddis' normally rich voice had died. It was almost a whisper.

"It's trashed, like the rest of the rig." Soun still held the Steyer by his side. He knew he had to talk with the Lieutenant about calling in a second chopper, but he was too worried to bring it up now.

"Soun, it's nothing like the rest of the rig." He turned slowly, and Soun jerked at the anger burning in his Lieutenant's dark eyes. With his combat shirt open, and his gear gone, Quiddis no longer looked like a military officer. He just looked dangerous.

Soun was debating what tact to take with Quiddis when the lieutenant tossed a small gray shape at him. Reflexively, Soun caught it with his free left hand as it hit the sweaty cloth on his broad chest.

"What the . . . ?" He turned it over one handed, familiar with the feel of US-issue anti-personnel firebomb.

"Smell the alcohol in here? That little fuck, Glad, was going to torch us all!" Quiddis slammed a swarthy hand into the wall next to him.

"But-"

"Look around. All the paper everywhere, alcohol shattered. I found a propane tank for the emergency generator back here. And the Doc's records have been ransacked." Quiddis had cooled down almost instantly, his face now a mask of impassive calm.

Soun blinked rapidly before his expression mirrored Quiddis. "We've been set up. As decoys." His mouth ran dry at the thought of not getting off the rig.

Quiddis left his rifle, and wandered through the office before turning back to Soun. "Listen, how's the lady Doc doing with Mulder?"

Soun tossed a glance over his shoulder, where Scully's voice could almost be heard ordering Meyers about. "I don't know. He looked bad off, but she's pretty good."

"That guy's the only one who figured out this was a setup. I need him." Quiddis rubbed his eyes, remembering their run through the bowels of this beast. "Not that I'm not happy or anything, but why didn't you evac like I told you?" Quiddis was too tired to muster any anger at his soldier.

Soun leaned up against the wall, his adrenaline high dropping fast. "Chopper blew." What else to say, he wondered.

Quiddis just shook his head. With a smile, he ran his hand over his buzzed black hair. "Figures. Think it's safe to call for backup?"

Soun realized that his lieutenant didn't trust any of their superiors now. "I don't know, boss. Maybe." He raised a thin eyebrow. "But you think we can get away with not calling?"

"Hmph. Where's the rest of the team?"

"Back at the hanger. Whoever's left. Peirson's down, and only one of the Army pukes is still up and running." Soun held himself tensely, worried at the Lieutenant's response.

"Damn. I'll call them first. Once Scully and Meyers get through in there, we'll huddle, and pick out a plan of attack."

The winds froze his fingers, and he barely felt the icy metal rungs he held onto. His attempt to climb up a workman's ladder on the outside of Platform Four was nearly freezing Colonel White to death. But if he didn't get out of the water quickly, he'd simply be choosing which avenue he took to die.

He'd lost the little machine pistol during the fall, and at least one of his parcels. He couldn't remember right now. It was all he could do to push numb limbs further up the rusted hull of Rig 43. Harder still with the gunshot wound in one arm.

Colonel White just waited to lose himself in the pain. He always did. When he thought it could get no worse, the hurting always did. And then it went away, and he kept walking.

He could always keep walking. They'd given him awards and positions because he always kept walking.

The voice of his drill Sergeant back in Missouri floated to him from inside. Left. Left. Left, right, Left! Pick 'em up and put 'em down! What don't you know how to walk? Keep it up! Keepin' it up here, Sarge, he thought.

Resting his sweating forehead against the icy side of the rig, White paused to watch the storm massing along the horizon.

I'll get out of this. I'll get out real soon. Then I can really be Glad. The thought made him smile, despite the burning cold in his fingers.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Dana needed Meyers to help her lift and roll Mulder about on the table. She needed his Kabar to cut the thick rubber of his P3 suit away, and his muscle to lift the unconscious agent enough to strip him of his suit. Despite the difficulty, Scully worked around his shoulder holster. He'd probably feel better with it in place.

Dr. Scully had also left her gloves on when she removed Fox's environmental suit. Dana trusted Mulder implicitly, but she still would never handle a patient without gloves. Almost never.

His suit had kept most of the blood from staining Mulder, and though his clothes smelled from his prolonged encasement, he looked fairly normal. White bandages and splints encased his slightly swollen right hand, and he still seemed wan, but he no longer hovered at death's door. Scully did not know whether to smile at him or hit him.

It would be a while until he came around, so she could postpone her decision until then. Morphine was a serious narcotic.

She'd been running constantly all day, and couldn't think about what to do next. Her body chose that moment to prompt her, and she brushed quickly past Meyers to the head. She found that though the water no longer ran, the toilet itself was thankfully chemical.

Her business done, Dana looked around the tiny bathroom. She slumped against the wall, fighting tears. Dana felt an overwhelming urge to stay in there, locked away where everything seemed normal. No more blood, no pain, no monsters. She wasn't part of the Files, and could once again grab hold of her normal life. Someplace where she wasn't firing a machine gun, for God's sake.

Someplace without Fox Mulder. Sighing with fatigue, she let the door rattle on the wall as she left.

She was almost out on her feet when she followed Meyers into the Doctor's office. There she used a small metal basin to wash up briefly, ignoring the SEALs standing around her. Once her hands were clean, she drew a length of gauze from a pocket, and tied her hair back. She was too tired to care about the way she looked or smelled or felt just then. After all, no one within one hundred miles was any better off.

Once done, she finally mustered the energy to look around her. The office was a small, messy cubbyhole with several bookcases occupying most of the valuable floorspace. The one light still working shone down onto the desk, and reflected light underlit everyone there.

Meyers was leaning up against the bookcase, and Quiddis sat in the doctor's rolling chair. Soun had pushed himself into the back, and pulled the only other chair up in front of him. Surgery had her tired enough not to argue, and she gratefully sank into the padded seat.

Only the Lieutenant's heavy voice kept her eyes open. "I checked in with Whitman. Everybody's still breathing up there."

"Thank God." Meyers let it slip out, and caught Dana looking at him with understanding.

"That's the good news. Bad news is a storm's coming. A new chopper is flying out to the _Elliot_ now. It'll get there in nine hours."

"Nine hours? What's taking nine hours?" This brought Dana forward in her seat, alert.

"Buffalo Tag." Quiddis shared a look of amusement with Soun over Dana's head.

"Excuse me?" She couldn't believe she'd heard the Lieutenant correctly.

"It's a joint exercise across Oklahoma. They've pulled a division and all available air support out of duty posts along this region. We've got no military lifters available to us."

Dana frowned. For a brief moment, she considered hiring a civilian helicopter, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no way she could justify dragging anyone else into this.

"Okay, so we wait nine hours. I think that's feasible"

"Try sixteen." Soun already knew, but Meyers hung his head at this. Scully just paled.

"Sixteen." She pictured Peirson, Pryce, and Mulder all awaiting treatment until it was too late.

"The chopper comes on station after nightfall, in a rainstorm, on the open ocean. They can't land on the _Elliot's_ deck in that. And they need her as a midpoint to get out here." Quiddis settled back, a sardonic grin on his face. "The cruiser may be a Spruance hull, but she'll be rocking too hard for the fly-babies."

"Let's call the _Elliot_ in here now. We'll just swim over." Meyers was a SEAL, first and foremost. His first interjection said a lot about him, no matter how high his voice was.

"Yeah, good idea. And when those things sink our ride home, just like the Prometheus, we can swim all the way to Texas." Soun shook his head, wondering how this kid got into a SEAL team this fast.

Dana rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't matter. We couldn't move the wounded like that anyway." She turned a drawn face toward the Lieutenant. "I take it you have a good idea already."

"No. Nobody could come up with a good idea about this cluster-fuck. But I think I can save our hides for another day."

He looked from face to face momentarily, gathering steam for a moment. "We don't know how many of those things are still crawling all over us now. We don't even know if there are any more. But we have to presume we'll be under attack."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Dana ignored the dull pain between her shoulder blades in order to lean forward and listen closely.

"This hospital was designed to be sealed off from the rest of the rig. Only two ways in, and we have solid steel fire doors and bulkheads on all sides. Besides, we need the facilities badly." He closed his eyes. "So we wall ourselves up in here until help arrives."

Dana nodded, but Meyers looked shocked. "What about basic tactics. 'Never let a mobile enemy pin you down.' They can hit us at leisure." There was a note of panic in his voice.

"Yeah. But you've seen them in motion. You think we can go hunting? Or fight a moving battle? Sure. Mulder and I were lucky they let us run." There was disgust in his voice. Quiddis still hadn't buttoned up his uniform, and he looked more like a fighter, and less like a soldier.

Dana was a step ahead of Meyers, blinking tired eyes as she tried to think. "What about the wounded in the hanger?"

"Soun and I go up, and cover them while my two men up there help Whitman bring them down. You and Meyers watch Mulder, and keep the place safe for us."

"Oh no. Hold on." Dana shook her head emphatically. "Peirson is in no condition to be moved, let alone up and down stairs. You'll kill him."

"He'll die if we don't move him."

"You don't know that. They might be nocturnal, or-"

"You willing to bet five men's lives on that? Are you?" Scully watched him in impotent silence. "Me neither."

Quiddis pulled himself straight, shaking out his opened shirt. "How's Mulder?"

This brought Dr. Scully to a position she knew well. "Better. You overlooked the exit wound along his palm, and he managed to damage a vein. It was just a matter of time before he bled out. He's going to be weak and cold, and very likely will come down with opportunistic infections, but he'll make it. You want to tell me what happened to him?"

Quiddis looked at the floor as he recalled the night's events in a monotone. "I was about to be killed by one of those things. Mulder stuck his pistol in its face, and blew it off me."

Everyone in the room looked shocked at this. Soun whistled softly. "Spooky damn FBI agent."

"Enough talk." Startled for a second time, all turned toward Dana. "If you're going, do it now. Before anything else happens, or Peirson weakens. I'll get you med supplies to take with you."

She rubbed her aching fingers on the bloodstained jeans covering her legs, and stood up. She rubbed the back of her neck as she headed out to find her gear. Her voice floated in from the other room. "And I'll need you to move Mulder now, before you leave. Can't keep him out there by the door."

Soun and Quiddis traded a look.

"Soun, she like that all the time?" The lieutenant looked worried.

"Yeah. Real hard-core jarhead, with an MD and tits." Soun smiled openly. "She'd be a good SEAL."

Soun stared into Dana's eyes from inches away. "You ready?"

She nodded, and tensed her shoulders. "On three." Before she could count, Quiddis laughed softly from the other side of Soun's bulk.

Dana stepped back from her position near the door. Bringing her rifle up and away, she looked at the lieutenant sharply. He'd finally had to remove his shirt, using it as a sling to carry the medical supplies with. They were wrapped in a blanket, and tied about his neck with his own shirt. All in all, he did look fairly comical.

Quiddis returned Scully's look, seeing a very tired woman in bloodstained jeans, with spots of deep red up her white shirt and onto her face. "Sorry. I didn't know you Feds did stuff like that. 'On three!' It just sounded like a movie with Mel Gibson , or something."

He pantomimed hefting his rifle, his jaw thrust forward darkly. Dana was too tired to laugh, but she gave in to a lazy smile.

"Okay. So what do you do?" She brushed her gaze across all three soldiers, and noticed that hers weren't the only pair of old eyes, ringed with bruises.

Soun answered for his Lieutenant. "We just say 'Go.' We're always ready, Ma'am."

Scully closed her eyes, her lips pressed in a thin line. She halfway expected as much. Drawing a deep breath, she brought her rifle up until it pointed at the door. Incidentally, it was very close to the soldiers. She opened her eyes.

"Still ready?" There was enough humor in her voice for the two older men to smile. Meyers stepped back slightly.

Quiddis nodded to her.

"Go!" Dana flipped the safety off on the rifle as Meyers swung the door open.

Seeing that the door was clear, Soun and Quiddis bolted out into the hallway, shoulder to shoulder. Each swept their eyes and barrel along the hallway at their side. Seeing nothing, Soun snapped around, and covered his lieutenant.

Dana stepped into the doorway, and covered the two men with her rifle, until they rounded a darkened corner. Then she pulled back into the hospital, and let Meyers close and bolt the door. She almost forgot to snap the safety back on before setting her rifle down.

Meyers watched as she reset her weapon, and rested it near the door. Scully scrubbed at her eyes with the relatively clean back of her hand.

"Go to sleep." Dana's gaze flashed up as Meyer's squeaky voice cut into her.

"What? I've got-"

"To sleep. You're about to fall over." Meyer picked up the rifle she had discarded, and slung it over his shoulder. She could see he'd tried to smooth out his sweat-stiffened hair, and left it as badly of as Fox's.

"And you're much better?" Even this tired, she managed to put some spark into her voice, and into her eyes. She had to. She was a doctor.

"No. But it only takes one to guard the door." He patted the slick metal.

"So-" Dana's head tilted. This was familiar ground at least.

"So they'll need you when they get everyone back here. Awake." Meyers tried to look at her from under his brow. With his youthful face, and gawky manner, it failed miserably.

But Dr. Scully still remembered her residency. All the precious minutes when she could catch her sleep on the thin sofa in the Doctor's Lounge. Sixteen hour shifts were the norm, and coffee turned itself into her best friend. She sighed, shaking her head.

"All right, but you wake me when they get back."

"No arguments there, ma'am." He smiled, his tension barely expressed in the pull of his eyes.

"Meyers. Cut out the ma'am. I feel like I'm your teacher or something." She padded across the floor toward the recovery room. "Call me Scully. Or Dana. Or something." She barely remembered to take her pistol with her as she left.

"Dana." Meyers worked his narrow shoulders as he watched the door. "You can call me Kevin."

Only six thin wool blankets had been folded into a scratchy stack when the SEALs entered the hospital. Three were now layered thinly upon Mulder's sleeping form. Fully half the flickering overhead lights were turned off to save power, and keep Mulder comfortable. Hard to do in a chilly, chalky room whose main attractions were linoleum and acoustical tiles.

Scully shivered as she picked up one of the dull Army surplus blankets, choosing the bed next to Mulder to sack out in. Suddenly deciding to check on her partner first, she tossed the blanket aside. It didn't make a comfortable noise when it hit the thin mattress of the next bed over.

Dana wrapped her flannel shirt tighter about her as she felt Mulder's forehead. Cold. Running her hands along his form under the blankets, his chest and hands were also still chilled.

Damn, she thought, lost too much blood to warm up well. If his core temperature isn't up there, he'll be too sick to stand. And that little generator isn't putting out enough power to warm this place up any time soon.

Dr. Scully found herself rubbing her eyes with the ball of her thumb, thinking about the flood of soldiers seemingly rising about them. She thought about all the ways that her idea might look to them, and whomever they reported to.

Screw 'em, was the best she could manage. She still felt a thick buzzing in her ears, and her arms were getting heavier as she watched Mulder's eyes flicker beneath his lids.

Dana grabbed the extra blanket from the bed she'd left it on, and drew the plastic curtain halfway shut. Separating Fox's bed from half the room also cut off what little light there was.

She walked around his bed, moving toward his uninjured left side, and pushed aside the covers. There was no way she was going to slide Mulder around in the bed like the orderlies back at Bethesda, so she resigned herself to having a lumpy federal agent as a mattress.

The state of Mulder's clothes brought a smile to Dr. Scully's face. Somehow, she'd forgotten to tell Meyers to remove his shoulder holster, and it was still strapped about him. It didn't look very comfortable. She decided not to bother Meyers, but instead pulled the holster off of the rig under Mulder's arm. She wondered what happened to her partner's gun.

Oh yeah, she remembered dimly. Monster got it. She giggled wearily as she dragged herself onto the bed, and halfway on top of her partner.

She reached down to pull the covers about them, and realized she'd left the gun in her right hand. She blinked, and realized just how tired she was. Sighing, she tucked it into Mulder's empty holster, and then clipped it to her belt. Then she tried again, and managed to drag the ugly hospital covers over herself and her partner.

Shifting softly about, she at last rested her head on his shoulder, one hip grazing the bed. She still needed her far arm and leg thrown across him to stay in place, but she rationalized that he'd be warmer that way.

The blunt mass of the lieutenant's pistol pressed into Scully's stomach, and she presumed into Mulder's as well. Just like Lancelot and Guinivere, she thought. Only I got the gun. Then she faded into sleep.

Once, Dana heard far away voices. But she grabbed a handful of cloth, and heard only deep heartbeats.

"Dr. Scully." A low voice called. "Hey, Agent Scully."

Still partially asleep, Dana came fully awake when a hand closed upon her shoulder. She rolled to her left, and spun off the narrow hospital bed in a mass of covers.

Soun hopped back, finding Scully holding a gun on him from her undignified position on the dirty linoleum. For a moment, he saw fear and anger in her blue eyes, and he froze completely. Then her gaze was washed with recognition, and she relaxed her two-handed hold on the pistol.

Rubbing her back with one hand, Dana let the flood of adrenaline push her awake. "You're back. Let me get myself together and I'll be out to the wounded in-"

"Uh-uh, Doc." In the half-light at Mulder's bedside, Soun's face was blank, save for the darkness of his eyes.

"What?" She looked around, and saw the chair the blankets had been stacked upon. It was empty. Dana pulled in a long breath. "How long have you been here?"

"We got back about two hours ago. Meyers and Whitman are sacked out right now too. El-tee can't sleep, and I thought you might want to take your turn at watch now, before everybody wakes up." Soun's mask broke for a moment, and he stared at the floor as he slowly turned away.

"Wait!" Dana quickly lowered her voice as she struggled to free herself from the blankets. "If Whitman's asleep, who's watching the wounded? Damnit Soun, talk to me!" She grabbed his arm, turning the broad-shouldered man about.

He took one of her small hands, but refused to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry ma'am. He didn't make it." Then Soun let her hand go, and left the room quietly.

Dr. Scully blinked, and pushed the remains of her ponytail out of her face. She pinched the sleep from her eyes, drawing a sweating hand over her face. The pistol was heavy in her other palm, but for the moment she did not know what to do with it. Looking up and down the row of small beds, only one had its curtain fully closed. Scully approached it with a sense of foreboding.

She stopped at the plastic sheet, one hand idly touching the hanging drapes. She didn't know why she was doing this, because she knew what was back there. Just the same, she licked her lips, and entered the chamber made by the translucent plastic.

Inside, the body on the bed was covered in a simple sheet, the blankets stripped and used by the living. Blood had soaked through the fabric in several places, and had subsequently dried into stiff russet circles. Next to the bed lay an airtank, mask, and strips of stained gauze. The drip racks and chart holder were empty, and the bed railings were down.

Scully stood at the foot of the bed, and tried to puzzle out her feelings. She'd seen countless bodies, and autopsied many of them. Why now was she chewing her lip? She took a step forward, and stopped, her arms still at her sides. Did she want to pull back the sheet?

She tried to remember which of the faces she'd seen in the _Elliot's_ hold was Peirson's. She couldn't remember a single one. She'd only really seen him as a large, friendly shape in plastic. Dana only remembered his voice in her ear, his hand on her back.

Dana Katherine Scully, don't do this to yourself.

But why not, she argued against herself. Why shouldn't I do this to myself? This is all my life is now, isn't it? Might as well enjoy what I have. And I've got a lot don't I? Don't I? A damn fool partner who disappears on me. Family I can't talk to about my work. An empty, cold apartment that reminds me of killers I've seen. A three month hole in my memory, and nightmares I can't shake.

I even have the occasional lover I don't want to spend much time with, and petty conversation that's not as much fun. Yeah, then I get a great drive back to downtown DC, where my beloved partner gets to poke holes in my life. Like he's supposed to be all I need, or something. Yeah, it's a wonderful life.

Then I meet a nice man, a sweet one. Didn't blow his top, or get scared off by my job. He was even a Navy man. But I don't even know his face. Not once.

Dana blinked impending tears from her eyes, and moved to the head of the bed. She swallowed sharply, for she could smell him. That mix she'd first known in med school, that concoction of sweat and blood, and finally death. It occurred to her that her jaw hurt, that she'd been clenching it for a while now.

Dr. Scully reached out for the sheet, drawing a shuddering breath.

"Don't."

Dana pulled back quickly and spun to face Lt. Quiddis. Blinking rapidly, she tried to gather her composure.

"You startled me." It bought her time to pace her breathing, and smooth her rumpled flannel overshirt.

"Don't, Agent Scully. It doesn't get any better that way. Just walk out, and get it together later." Quiddis tried to catch her eyes, but she found herself staring at the tiny black bars on the collar of his shirt. He'd put it back on, but it still wasn't buttoned.

"I just had to know. He was my patient." The muscles moving under the Lieutenant's flat stomach were much easier for her to focus on than his compassionate eyes. Was that the way her eyes seemed to Mulder?

"And he was my man. And he was somebody's boyfriend, and somebody's son. But we all just get used to it."

He was starting to upset Scully. Not just because he was right, but because she doled this speech out to the agents at the Academy. She hated losing people. That was what had driven her into forensic medicine. Never having to watch her patients die.

"Right. Let me check on everybody." Dana brushed past Quiddis, who wisely left her alone. For a moment, he too stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the body under the sheet. Then he slowly drew the curtain, and walked away. He left the room, noting that the Doctor was simply standing at Fox's bedside.

She waited at Mulder's bedside, looking down at him. God, she'd become so familiar with this sight of him. Sadly, only when wounded did she see that peaceful look upon him with any regularity. And judging by his life, she knew why. Every waking moment, and all his sleep, never to forget. Until he was hurt beyond belief, and drugged beyond the reach of his dreams.

That thought drained some of Scully's anger from her. She wanted to blame the thin, boyish face in front of her. But she couldn't, not without remembering why he had to be here. And she'd volunteered, following Fox every step of the way.

She set the gun down by his head, and started tossing the blankets back over his lanky body. She was amazed at how easily the nurses always seemed to make that look. One flick of the wrist, and they settled on a bed, all sides straight and tight. She managed to tug them into place across Mulder with some effort.

But didn't most things take a little effort with Mulder?

She wet her lips, and decided to avoid that subject. Even within the confines of her own head, she didn't want to air some subjects now. So she felt quickly at his head, convincing herself he was warm enough. Then she picked up her pistol, and started to make her rounds of the ward. Very like her residency, if she ignored the weight of the pistol, or how the rifle had beaten the muscles in her arms and back.

She looked in on Pryce first. The sutures sealing his scalp wound looked second-rate, but he probably wouldn't complain anytime soon. The Major was curled up about a rifle, the lines of his face carved more deeply by the dim light. The collar of his uniform was stiff and stained with his own blood, and his heavy boots protruded from the bottom of his covers. Dr. Scully found it much easier not to think now, immersed in the routine of her profession.

Whitman lay in the next bed over, his arm hanging off the edge and into space. A pistol lay on the ground beside him, and some sheet was haphazardly tangled across his legs. Scully smiled when she realized no one had wanted to hand the kid a rifle.

One of the other soldiers, a heavily muscled man with an ugly brown mustache was sitting upright and asleep in the corner. Scully had never learned his name before she left him with Whitman in the hanger. Even in his sleep he cradled his rifle in his arms like a lover, and Dana decided not to get close enough to read the name off his uniform.

There was no sign of the other soldier she'd left above. Just thinking about that dawning light made her cringe. It seemed too much a part of the scene there.

She'd reached the doorway into the main part of the tiny hospital when the gun in her hand started bothering her palm. She stopped, and shifted it to her left hand, still looking about her. She brought her right hand up to scratch it against her jeans when she stopped and looked at it. It was covered in dark black particles, each as small as a snowflake.

Her eyebrows crept close to one another as she looked at the pistol in her left hand. It was a military standard issue weapon, the metal darkened at the factory to a dull black finish. It smelled still of phosphorus and sulfur, for it hadn't been cleaned since it had been fired. But the grips on the gun were lighter colored, and in the grooves something dark had dried. Blood.

Dana turned, and saw the drapes that hid her partner from view. His gun was gone, and his hand had been injured severely. And Quiddis' weapon had blood on it. The obvious conclusion was that Mulder had been carrying the Lieutenant's weapon while the two men tried to escape the bottom of the rig.

But they'd only had the two pistols. Why then would Quiddis have been unarmed down there? She closed her eyes, picturing every possible scenario. And Fox wasn't conscious to confirm or deny any of them.

Dana heard voices in the Office, and quickly thrust the pistol into Mulder's holster about her waist. She didn't want to be seen staring at it in the middle of the doorway. She pulled her flannel shirt about her, letting the hem cover the gun ever so subtly. Then she headed into the office.

On the way in, she passed Meyers. He was sacked out on a couch, curled up in a ball underneath a heat register. She shook her head and sighed. Dana hadn't been able to rest near a heating duct in over a year.

In the office, Scully found Soun wrapped in a blanket in the doctor's chair, his massive Steyer on the desk close at hand. Quiddis had been talking to him, but turned at the noise. Soun shot her a sympathetic look the moment his officer's back turned, and nodded slightly.

"Agent Scully, you're up." Quiddis ran a hand along his dark hair and smiled, the white of his teeth a marked contrast to thebags under his eyes.

"I'm taking the watch now. Soun's resting." She tried to gauge what went on in the Lieutenant's head, tried to look behind his dark eyes.

Quiddis grinned, and looked back toward Soun. "I win. And you owe me."

"Take it offa your tab." Soun turned an easy grin toward a scowling Federal Agent. "El-Tee bet me that you'd wake up and go straight to work. At this rate, he's going to work off those cases he owes me." Soun winked at her.

"Huh?" Quiddis turned on Soun, missing the confusion on Dana's face. "You owe me. Or are you forgetting Malta?"

"I won at Malta." Soun closed his eyes and leaned back, mimicking sleep.

"What? Pendahocosa! I beat you every time."

Realization dawned in Dana's eyes as she watched the two men banter sharply. At first, she'd been confused. Soun had asked her specifically to wake up and take the watch, and she hadn't been able to understand why he'd bet against himself.

Then she realized. He wanted his lieutenant to win. After all the setbacks he'd faced, he needed something positive to believe in. It wasn't much, but it had him smiling.

And he'd managed to get Scully up and about. He'd broken the news, and got her going too. And he'd done it so she'd have some time to herself before the others got up. She decided to interrupt the two from their play.

"'Night, Soun." Softly, and with a smile in her eyes she watched him.

"'Night, Doc." He didn't look up, but she heard him.

Dana light-footed out of the office, and back into the main room. Her rifle was leaning to one side, away from where she'd set it in her hurry. Picking it up, Scully noted the fresh gun oil, and signs of cleaning. Somebody had been bored, or thorough, or both.

Dana leaned up against the table she'd used to save Fox, and stared at the bolted door. It was a few seconds before she realized that Soun had done something else.

He'd distracted her from wondering why Fox was carrying the Lieutenant's gun. Or why Quiddis was carrying Fox out onto the catwalk with Glad in the first place.

Dana had a lot to think about as she watched the wall.

There are few constants in the universe. Few things that can be counted on to occur in all places and at all times. Modern physics would like the public to believe that these constants are within their realm. But in all honesty, few people are ever in a position to observe these invariants. For all intents and purposes, they are easily ignored by most of us.

In Mulder's life, one of the few constants was the off-white blandness of a drop ceiling. The speckled, dusty panels and their slightly gray partitions. The one piece that has cracked, revealing the gray pressboard beneath the paint. And their inevitable concentric circles of brown water stains.

He stared at them for a few moments, trying desperately to recall how he'd arrived here. He could recognize the hospital bed and drapes; he'd seen enough for them to be more familiar than his own bedroom. But he was covered in layers of blankets, and the air about him was cold. What was more, there was the faint bite of smoke in the air, and under it the smell of decay.

He had not gotten off the rig, he guessed.

And from the low pounding in his head, he was in poor shape as well. Not entirely surprising, he admitted. The surprise had been Glad, really. The last thing he recalled was Glad and Quiddis carrying him through the halls to safety. Apparently, they had succeeded. But Fox was surprised Glad had let them live.

He smiled slowly. At least the helicopter would have pulled the rest of the team off of this nightmare derrick. And no matter how hot her temper, the SEALs would have dragged Dana with them.

Now Mulder just had to figure a way off the rig for himself. He guessed that his benefactors probably had more on their minds than checking in on him. He probably would have to go call on them. And that meant standing up.

This was always the part of hospital stays he'd hated. The nurses with pinched faces telling him to stand up, and walk back and forth across a cold, medicinal room. That sick, leaden feeling that accompanied illness, and the lightheaded nausea of surgery. And the inevitable pain of dragging yourself into a sitting position.

Fox tried to pull the covers back, and couldn't. After a curious look, he realized that his right hand was bandaged and splinted ferociously. He also couldn't feel his arm below his elbow. This bothered him, and he tried to dismiss it.

Instead, he used his left hand to toss back the covers. The chill air hit his sweating body, and he felt frozen. The headache felt a little worse. He noticed that he was out of that horrible P3 suit, but still in his clothes. Thankfully, Quiddis had not decided to do the whole hospital number on him. Mulder hated those damn backless gowns nurses shoved patients into. And it was a rare nurse who was worth all the trouble, too.

Mulder took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. When his head came up, his vision faded out momentarily. He blinked rapidly, and soon saw his own shoes. He was folded in half at the edge of his bed, with every limb prickling with thousands of needles.

Blood loss. I nearly died of blood loss, Mulder thought. I remember feeling like this after I was shot in the leg. It was like my legs had been asleep, and I was dizzy and blanked out like that.

He looked down at his gauze wrapped hand. As his eyes fired up and began working again, he noticed smears from blood stained fingers on the cloth. He poked at his hand, and was rewarded by a deep, numb ache. Mulder grimaced, knowing how it would feel once the painkillers wore off.

Cautiously, he slid off the bed. If he was about to lose feeling in his legs, he didn't want to make too much noise as he fell. But he surprised himself when he managed to remain on his unsteady feet, even after he released the bedsheets.

Wobbling slightly, Mulder used his awkward left hand to draw a rough blanket about his shoulder. It took some time to pin it about one shoulder, and then work it over the other. At last he was done, and could hold the fabric in place with his bandaged hand. Grinning palely at his own small accomplishment, he managed to leave the small enclosure.

Despite the dim light, Mulder saw that several other beds were also in use, their curtains drawn. He poked his head through one, and saw Whitworth, still asleep. He was stunned; Whitworth should have been on the helicopter out of here already. The last curtained divider hid another sleeping soldier, one Mulder wasn't familiar with. Through his confusion, it occurred to Fox that perhaps the helicopter never arrived. Or perhaps it never left.

Still dizzy, he slammed into the edge of the door on the way out. He pushed off, fighting for the balance he needed to make it through the small hospital facility. He stumbled and fell against someone, felt arms grab him about the waist.

"Mulder, you shouldn't be up." Dana had dropped her rifle and leapt to her feet when she'd seen her partner stumble blindly into the darkened main room.

"Scully? You okay?" He was out of breath as she pushed him back against a desk, forcing him to sit down atop it.

"A lot better than you're doing."

Mulder bent over, holding himself up with his left hand on his knees. He spoke to the floor. "I thought you were getting out on the helicopter."

"So did I." She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, and checked his forehead before examining his bandages. "You've got a fever. I-"

"They never showed?" He wearily brought his head up, and took in her wild hair, bloodstained clothes, and smell of smoke.

"They showed. But those things destroyed the helicopter and killed the pilots. Mulder, what are they?" He managed to hold her eye, and was shocked by the stiff, hard look there.

"You know my usual list of suspects." She steadied him with a hand, but didn't smile at his joke. "You notice those things had green blood, same as that bounty hunter."

"Only it's a corrosive acid."

Mulder leaned further back, resting his head against the wall behind him. He decided to keep his eyes closed. "Right. So what did I miss?"

Once he propped himself against the wall, Dana took her hand away. Now she didn't know what to say to him. What had he missed? There was too much to say, and too few words for her to use. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face.

"That good, huh?" Dana still said nothing, and Fox couldn't bring himself to open his eyes to her. He could hear her rattling about with some pills for him to take, and it upset him that she wouldn't talk to him. He wanted her to say something to him, now. He wanted a chance to apologize to her.

Maybe they could just talk. "You and that soldier still getting along?" He kept his eyes closed, his head pounding.

Scully's jaw dropped and her eyes narrowed. After all that had happened here, he had the audacity to play mind games. He still wanted to hurt her, pry where he wasn't wanted. She fought an urge to slap him. Instead she drew a shaky breath, and tried to conjure something suitably scathing to say. She couldn't think of a thing. Not one word came to her, not a witticism or a single remark.

"Scully?" She closed her eyes, rather than see Mulder's now open eyes trying to read her expression. She'd have turned away, but she didn't think she could.

"Scully? What's wrong?" Mulder took her elbow clumsily in his left hand, and pulled on her slightly as he tried to sit upright.

"Nothing." Scully mumbled something further to him as she shook free of his hand and turned away. She couldn't continue talking like this. She wanted to get back to her seat, and keep watch, alone.

"Wait, Scu-," He tried to push off from the desk to follow her, but collapsed to the floor when his legs gave out on him. "Ah-Ohgodohgodohgodogod. . ." He rolled away from the side he'd landed upon, cradling his hand.

"Damnit Mulder, can't you do anything right?" When he looked up again through the pain, Scully was kneeling down beside him, bent over his bloody bandages. Her hair hung down, obscuring her face as she started unwinding the gauze about his hand.

"You pull out more damn stitches than I put in, you know that?" She fumbled with the bandages, her voice thick.

"Yeah, I do it just to spite you." His face was pinched as she pulled back the bandages. He didn't want to look.

"I figured. Well, congratulations; the stitches held. You just hit some of the broken bones in your hand." She started rewrapping his wounds, her hair still hanging across her face.

"Broken bones?" Mulder watched his partner, unsure what he'd triggered accidentally.

"When that fragment hit your hand, it shattered a couple of bones in your hand before coming out your wrist." She tied the bandages viciously enough to elicit a grunt from Fox. "You're real lucky to be alive."

Dana threw Mulder's arm across her shoulder, and unceremoniously drew him to his feet. She didn't want to face him, her mouth dry from the mix of anger and guilt she suddenly felt. Instead, she wrapped her arm about him, keeping her head down. Suddenly his height would be to her advantage, for he wouldn't be able to see her face.

"Let's get you back to bed." Now her voice was softer, less distinct. But she managed to get him moving toward the door.

Despite Scully's arm about his ribs, Mulder reeled. He used his bandaged hand to tilt her chin toward him, and she didn't resist. Instead, they both stopped just at the door to the sick room. Fox stood still, watching the dim light play across his partner's face and hands. He could swear it looked like she was crying silently.

"Scully, I-" She twisted her face away, and pressed him into motion again.

"It's not you, Mulder. So just shut up and walk." There was too much forced humor in her voice, but she managed to hustle him into the hall along the beds.

"Who then? Peirson? That guy from this weekend? What?" His head hurt, and she was just helping it reach new levels. Mulder took his hand from about her shoulder, and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Scully pushed away from Mulder, digging into her shirt pocket as she looked away. "I forgot. Here, take two of these. . ."

She pulled his hand from his face, and pressed several small capsules into his hand. Fox stared through the darkness at the pills before he tossed them aside. They scattered loudly across the metal decking.

"I don't want any damn pills, Scully!" His intense whisper came out as a hiss, and his eyes were blacker than the darkness around them. "I want answers. You've been dodging me or lying to me since you came back from this weekend, and I want to know why."

Dana stared at Fox a moment before answering. "No, Mulder. This is dodging you." She turned and walked back toward the door, leaving Mulder standing a few feet from his bed.

"Scully . . ." Fox knew he'd said the wrong thing, but he couldn't believe that his snipes at her earlier were still cutting this deeply.

"No more, Mulder. No more." She took up her chair, hefting the big rifle across her lap. Dana cast a glance down the hallway, where he still leaned against the metal bulkhead.

Agent Mulder knew from her tone that his words weren't going to change her mind in the least. If anything, he was likely to worsen the situation, and that he did not want. The ward echoed more quietly than ever as he walked past the remaining beds toward his own. As he reached the foot of his bed, he realized he'd left his blanket back on the desk behind him. He only paused momentarily, not wishing to confront Dana just then. It took little thought for him to abandon it.

His head was pounding as Mulder limped to the side of his own bed. It was hospital standard uncomfortable, but he ached enough to look forward to it. But just as he walked alongside the mussed bed, his brow wrinkled. A passing thought had wandered through his mind when he awoke, forgotten until now.

He picked at the flat pillow, searching in the darkness with his fingers. He couldn't find any hair without light to see, and he cursed himself for dropping the flashlight. Instead he smelled the pillow, and the rumpled covers alongside the bed. Despite the chill air, and the rank smell of the room, Fox could still smell it. Dana's hair was one thing he'd recognize anywhere.

Mulder found himself leaning on the cold bed, fighting his headache to think. He knew that something wasn't adding up, and now the one person he could trust didn't want him in the room with her. He'd said and done exactly the wrong things, and at exactly the wrong times, as he always did.

Sometimes, when he woke in a sweat on his sofa, he wondered just how much of his life's troubles were of his own making. A father who hated him, a mother he never talked to cropped up first. A love life that lasted until Monday at best, and an empty home flashed by. And Dana, he thought. And Dana.

Rubbing at burning eyes, Fox forced his thoughts away from his self absorbed ramblings. He was supposed to be the FBI's best profiler, able to think just like his target. He could understand people's motives, and know their moves before they did. Even in a game of chess with no rules, he was ten jumps ahead.

Why couldn't he understand Dana then? Her smiles and frowns were still pleasant surprises to him, and he still tightened at the prospect of her reaction to his constant teasing. Certainly he knew her every professional response, and saw the orderly working of her intellect. Mulder trusted her as a partner because they moved side by side without misstep, like dancers in their movements. Until now. He realized that for all their time together, and for all the facets of her person he'd seen, she was still something of a mystery to him. And this was a mystery he might lose.

He wanted to lie down and go to sleep, give in to the cold lassitude that weighted his arms. He wanted to let his thoughts continue to blur in and out of focus, his memories giving way to dreams. Once there everything would again be clear and painless.

No, he reminded himself. Concentrate on the situation. First he played all the relevant facts through his head. Then he thought about anything small, any detail he would never have counted important. The obvious conclusion was that he'd been an ass. A royal, four flushed wanker was the name that sprang to him from his days in Oxford. He wondered if this was this sort of thing that he'd done to earn his treatment at Phoebe Greene's hands.

He shook away the memory, as the chill air slowly sapped his remaining vigor. His actions would explain her anger, but not all that had just transpired. So he reversed all the names in his mind, tried pretending that Dana had treated him the way he'd treated her. What had she experienced that he hadn't? And he saw a pattern.

Her family was large, and she was used to them, comfortable and happy as Fox had never known. Now her brothers are away, and she moves out and into the FBI. Her father dies shortly thereafter, and her mother would be busy dealing with that. She's never really made many friends in Washington, and her half-mad partner is lost in a world of his own. To top it off, her job alienates just about everyone in her profession. She was lonely.

She disappears for a weekend fling, much as Fox was accustomed to doing. Only she returns to a partner who throws a tantrum, intrudes in her private life, and does everything but say he's jealous. It had to remind her of the distance they kept, just the opposite of what he'd tried to say. The irony involved was one of the things that made Fox lay his head on the cold bedcovers.

He'd have yelled at Dana long before now. But not her, not Doctor Scully. Fox knew that it was his emotions that kept him going, that anger and guilt pushed him past the rough spots. But she was ruled more by her ambition, honesty, and intelligence. Something more was needed to make his partner, his friend snap at him now, and under these circumstances.

His head throbbed, and he wished he hadn't thrown away those pills she'd proffered. Whatever was in them had to be preferable to the steady pain that echoed his heartbeat.

He fought it to recall the words he'd said each time, the ones that triggered her responses. Think like the professional you're supposed to be, he pressed. 'What have I missed.' Then 'Peirson.' Then I accused her of lying to me. Oh shit. No, not that, not now.

The dank smell sharing the hold with him suddenly intruded on Mulder. He spun upright, ignoring the blackness spinning just past the edge of his vision. It moved in time with his headache, and made him desperately want to fall over. Instead, he walked to the drapes. Toward the one bed farther from the door than his.

Pushing it open, he remembered suddenly why it was he had been afraid of the dark. Under the plain white cover was a blood stained body. Mulder couldn't bring himself to look at the face, and he knew it wouldn't help him much anyway.

Instead he pulled at the right boot one-handed, struggling with it as quietly as he could. It pulled away with a sucking noise, and revealed an army boot inside. Mulder gingerly set the P3 boot down, then set about removing the next boot. He couldn't manage to get his numb fingers to pull apart the nylon lacings of the boot, though. And his goal, a shiny piece of metal, could be seen peeking through the many laces.

Instead, he forced himself to pull back the sheet, revealing the head and chest of the body. Most of the dark rubber suit had been eaten away, but the name 'Peirson', was just legible. Fox knew how she had to be feeling, sitting alone in the dark. He pulled the sheet up, barely over the head of the body, before turning about. He wanted to be there with his partner.

Mulder managed to stagger out to her, using the wall to push against as he walked. He was pretty sure it wasn't medically sound for him to be legging it out like this, but there was no chance he'd leave her alone just then. As he passed the desk, he gathered his forgotten Army surplus blanket into his arms.

It scratched his one bare forearm as he walked alongside Dana. She didn't look up at him, instead focusing on the sealed hatch before her. Fox grabbed the back of her chair for support momentarily before dropping the blanket over her shoulders.

Mulder easily remembered how he'd felt when his partner had died, and how she'd taken the loss of her father. He didn't move to touch her, and only spoke briefly, under his breath.

"I'm sorry. . . Dana"

Scully looked up, her face an unreadable tangle of emotions. "Mulder, it's you. . ."

Mulder's sleepy eyes hid a frown. Despite the Exxon sized headache working its way across his temples, he wondered who she'd expected.

"You've got to stay in bed, you're about ready to fall over." Dr. Scully pushed herself to her feet, letting the blanket slide to the floor and leaving her rifle on the chair. No matter how she felt, she couldn't very well leave her partner swaying in the middle of a room.

Dana once again took hold of her partner, and helped him back to his bed. This time, however, he held his tongue until she'd helped him sit on the bed.

"Scully, I'm sorry." He almost mumbled it, like a tired child.

"You've said that before. And it's all right." She lifted his legs up and onto the bed before looking over her shoulder. The drapes leading to Peirson's body were pulled back, and the shroud disturbed. Dana pursed her lips, and pulled the drapes closed with a soft sound.

When Scully turned back, her charge was out cold, the blankets still pinned beneath his legs. As she reached for the blankets, Dana was thinking about the ways in which her partner needed help. Then her hand brushed against his leg, and she was struck still by how cold it was.

Running her hands along his arms and neck, she found his skin sallow and cold. But his forehead and cheek still burned with a mild fever. After all the blood loss, Mulder's body couldn't keep its temperature up. In this environment, that invited illness and worse, hypothermia. It was then she found the pulse along the inside of his thigh, rapid and shallow.

"Whitman." Scully called out in the dark to the USAMRIID doctor.

"Yes, here." The thin man moved quickly from his cubicle, rotating his shoulders to work the kinks out.

"Start heating up some plasma; Mulder needs another transfusion immediately. I'll get the antibiotics while you set up the IV stand." She pushed her flannel sleeves up to her elbows as she barreled down the darkened corridor.

"Got it." Whitman was at her heels, buttoning the sleeves on his uniform shirt. "He sounded groggy. Um, we'll need to keep him warm, while checking him for signs of fever."

Scully yanked several small ampules from a miniature refrigerator, hoping they had been kept cold enough. "Too late. He's already showing. Now we need to control it, and break it."

Whitman disappeared into the walk in refrigerator large samples were stored in, and came out with several bags of yellowish blood plasma under his arms. He rubbed one frantically, trying to bring its temperature up. Then he noticed Agent Scully staring at him.

"You were listening, weren't you?" Her eyes were tightened imperceptibly, the lines at her mouth a trifle deeper.

Whitman blinked rapidly before speaking, a weak grin on his face. "Sounded like doctor-client confidentiality to me, sir."

With that he fled down the corridor toward Mulder's bedside. Dana searched the drawers for chemical heat packs before joining him.

White was about as unhappy as he could be. The plentiful oil and grease he'd found in the mining pump provided fuel to keep him warm, but it was a poor solution at best. The toolcase he was using as a firepit kept the burning oil contained, and even shielded him from the boiling grease the fire kicked upward. But it let out the most horrific black smoke, thick enough to choke and noxious enough to hold him far from the warmth.

He wanted to use a crowbar with grease on the end as a torch, but he knew full well that the oil would simply liquefy, and run down onto his hands. And he was himself smeared with diesel, oil, and grease; he couldn't afford even a single mistake handling the fire.

His bleeding arm severely limited his movements. Stallone movies notwithstanding, there was no way White was going to use fire to cauterize a bullet wound. Strips torn from the hem of his undershirt were going to have to do it.

He exercised as best he could with his wounded arm, counting on his body heat to keep him healthy, and dry his clothes. When the fire warmed and dried White as much as he could hope, he set out.

Now the hard part began. Unarmed, wounded, and in the dark, he had to find a way off the rig with what remained of the samples he'd been sent to collect. The tool box was one way to carry the fire with him, but it made the handle hot enough that he needed to hunt for an insulated wrench to hold the handle.

There was no avoiding the paralyzing fear he felt for those monsters roaming the derrick. But he'd dealt with fear often enough. Anyone who doesn't feel it is a lunatic, and anyone who doesn't handle it is a coward. It was a motto that had followed him from his earliest days training insurgents. Now was just a very practical test.

Over to his right, a shuttered opening to an electrical conduit was partially concealed behind hanging chains. The flickering firelight cast indistinct shadows along dancing walls, and in every corner White could almost see the gleaming carapaces of his enemy. Shaking his grizzled head, he ducked around the chains, and moved to the shutters. With his combat jumpsuit crammed with tools from the rig, he had little trouble removing the bolts that held it in place. He had far more trouble lowering the shutters to the floor in silence.

Once the heavy covering was gone, the firelight revealed an empty conduit, whose curved walls and ceiling were lined with bundles of wires, each as thick as his wrist. It was big enough for him to stand up in, but just barely. And he wasn't a tall man.

And the shallow pools of stagnant water that reflected the bare metal above them only added to the tight feeling of the passageway. It didn't help that this was Col. White's best chance to leave Rig Forty-Three.

His footfalls echoed heavily in his ears as he moved down the conduit.

Whitman cautiously set up the IV in Agent Mulder's left arm. According to Scully, the man tended to slip IVs right out of the vein in his left arm three times out of five. Ordinarily, she'd use his right, but the injury there prevented it. Whitman swallowed, trying to picture a job where somebody would be on IVs that often.

His reverie was broken by Dr. Scully's tense voice again. "What's his bee-pee?" He slipped the blood pressure cuff over Fox's limp left hand, and started inflating it even before it was in position.

"Eighty over seventy." He felt under Fox's jaw and counted off heartbeats on his watch. Doing some quick multiplication, he continued. "Heart rate's an even one-forty."

Scully pulled the syringe out of the dangling IV tube, finished with the Amoxicilin injection. Dull blue eyes flashed a worried look at him over Mulder's chest. "He's going to go arrhythmic like that. Find some Verapimil, and start a slow drip."

Whitman started around the bed, following Dana into the main area of the hospital. "What about Dobutamine?" He turned away from her to the medical chest.

"Uh-uh. We'll need him up and around when the weather clears. You start that, I'll get more thermal packs and a glucose drip." She ignored the hair falling in her eyes as she methodically overturned every drawer of every cabinet set into the wall. All the neatly stacked items bounced around her feet as she tossed them down, searching for equipment.

Finding what she was looking for, she lifted the hem of her shirt and dumped several items into it. Then she rushed down the hall, back to Fox's bedside.

"What's his heart rate now?" She kept her eyes on Agent Mulder's face as she snapped the chemical heat packs, and thrust them under the blanket.

"Down to ninety and slowing. Seems okay for now." Dr. Whitman reached across to grab the glucose drip bag, and hang it alongside the plasma container.

Scully picked up the electric thermometer she'd grabbed, and stuck it in Mulder's ear. The small LCD display read '96.5,' and she frowned at it.

"Well, his temperature is still too low, and his face is flushed. You stay with him, while I get the main room in order."

Whitman barely managed to beat her to the foot of the bed. "Nope, no can do."

Dana pushed aside the arm he'd extended toward her. "And why not?"

"I'm not the one prescribing drugs for him, Doctor." He pulled himself upright, adding an inch to his height advantage. "I'm just helping out. He's all yours." With a brief smile, he quickly moved away.

Scully was flatfooted. She knew he'd heard Mulder arguing with her. It wasn't much of a leap to see that he wanted to 'help her out,' by giving her some time with her unconscious partner.

Well, she didn't want time. She didn't want any more nosy damn men in her life. She didn't want all this care and concern. Damnit, she was a forensic pathologist, and a trained Federal Special Agent. It galled her to have an absolute stranger doing the same things that irked her in her partner. And Mulder could raise her blood pressure better than anyone.

Still thinking of him, she sat awkwardly on the high bed, almost atop Mulder's thigh. Under the layers of blankets, she could feel one of the chemical hotpacks burn brightly into her thigh. There was no place for her to sit here, and she'd rather burn than go out and pick up a chair to bring back here. There was no way she wanted to face Whitman just then. God only knew what she'd say to him.

Sitting as she did provided no support. Dana found herself shifting fitfully, almost disturbing her partner's rest. Then a thought occurred to her; Whitman awoke to the noise of her conversation with Fox, and he was just a doctor like her. For all the soldiers resting on edge, they must have been very loud indeed.

She couldn't help running over in her head what these men had seen. First I crawled into bed with my partner, my _partner_ for God's sake! Then I get into what could easily be misconstrued as a lover's quarrel, right in front of the whole of the US military. And when he gets sick, I hurl objects left and right like some love sick-

Dana stopped when she realized her nails were biting into her thighs through the denim. She took a deep breath and released it. Then she turned to see her partner's ashen profile in the half light. She smiled, and pushed the stiffened hair back from his forehead. It took a moment or two, but her temper cooled as it always did. I am scared of those animals out there, and worried about my partner, she thought. It is not Whitman's fault, and it's not Mulder's.

Dana rubbed her eyes and laughed soundlessly. The stress was starting to get to her. And she was halfway to punching a coworker who was helping save Mulder's life. This was one side to soldiering she hadn't thought of, something she suddenly hated. The waiting that could burn nerves short, and set tempers off.

She thought about the men resting all about her, still holding their guns in their sleep. Doubtless each and every one knew what she was going through. Certainly they faced the loss of a partner as well. They'd understand. Soun would, she was sure. And if they didn't . . . fuck it. She knew what rumors ran around the labyrinthine corridors of the Bureau. She'd laughed at a few of them. Because she knew she couldn't let that rule her life, any more than she could let her temper get the better of her.

She hopped off the bed, knowing she didn't want to spend another minute lost in thought. Dana straightened her shirt, and swept her hair back behind her ears. Then she walked out and into the main room, passing Whitman as he knelt to clean up the mess she'd made in her haste. Without a word, she retrieved her rifle before tapping Whitman on the shoulder. He nodded at the mix of emotions on her face, and she mouthed the words 'thank you' to him. Then she padded softly to Fox's bedside.

Back in the relative safety of Mulder's area, she used the rifle's strap to hang it from the bedpost. Pulling aside the covers, Scully crawled in next to her partner. He needed the warmth, and she needed the rest. With her eyes closed, she was almost comfortable. She laughed, picturing the SEAL faces. After she awoke, one of them would have to curl up with Mulder to keep him warm. And within a few minutes, she was asleep.

Scully had her rifle in her hands before her eyes were open. The sound of her feet hitting the linoleum was lost under the heavy, repeating booms that echoed through the very walls. She used the rifle barrel to push aside the curtains, trying to rub sleep out of her eyes as she moved.

"Scully..." Dana never heard him as she raced down the hallway toward the source of the noise.

"Soun! What's going on!" She was yelling for him over the slamming noises. Very obviously, the main hatchway into the hospital was vibrating loudly as it was struck with violent force from the other side. Around her, Whitman and Meyer were hauling medical supplies back toward the rear of the medical area, while Quiddis and Pryce wired curved pieces of plastic to the doorway.

"Scully, they're coming!" Soun grabbed her, and spun her around. He danced back as she flicked the safety off and swung the barrel at his face before pointing it away.

"Sorry." The pounding was out of time with the blood in her ears, and she still couldn't shake the vague dreams of Duane Barry.

"We're falling back, back to the next set of rooms. Past the office, there's a lounge, and an exit into hallway Two-Four A, get it?" Soun turned, his eye on the dents forming in the metal of the bulkhead. "We fall back, and seal the room, then fight room by room on the way out. You get Mulder up and running, we handle the big guns."

Scully saw that the door hinges were tearing, and the paint was flaking from the plated steel as the metal itself warped from the impact. She ran at full speed down to Mulder's bedside. There she found him sitting up, trying to pull the IV needles from his arm with his teeth.

"No time. Just drag the rack around." Scull was terse as she checked his color. The lights were low, but she thought he looked damn pale. The pounding increased in tempo, and she wondered who wouldn't.

He grabbed her shoulder as she approached, and pulled himself up. Then he slid halfway down her body before catching ahold of her gun arm with his left hand. "Oh, God. I can't walk."

"Just the medicine. Don't worry." She held him tightly, until he could pull his legs underneath and wobble to his feet.

"That was fun." Dana grimaced at the joke, wondering that he could laugh at a time like this.

Suddenly, the main door snapped inward with a scream of tortured steel. There was a flash of motion, and then a series of scorching explosions. Gouts of flame tore from the small charges placed about the door, and through the dark mass of bodies.

The Claymore charges were directional, and their payload of ball bearings gutted the packed hallway. Then Soun and Quiddis opened fire relentlessly, the inhuman shrieks of their targets burning their ears. The blasts of gunfire in the enclosed area quickly deafened all.

The lights suddenly died, leaving only the flickering yellow light of the muzzle blasts to illuminate the dark forms pouring through the smoking and rent doorway. Men screamed back and forth, but their rising voices made no sense to Dana. She only heard the basso roars of Soun's weapon, and the sense of barely contained panic.

Quiddis made it through the next doorway as Dana managed to drag Mulder forward. He kicked a grenade from the launcher under his rifle, and the blast nearly batted him to the floor with a flash of light.

Meyer leaped up, and managed to slam the doorway closed. In a heartbeat Pryce and Whitman were alongside him, fastening the many catches around the door. They leaped back as this door too began to ring with repeated blows.

Now, though, the screams from the other side of the door could be heard over the impacts. The man Scully couldn't name stepped forward, and wedged a grenade into the door handle, wrapping wire about its pin. Somebody took Mulder's other arm, and started moving him along, through another door. She nearly tripped in the small space of the doctor's office, but then they were on the other side of the next door, and the pounding again grew impatient.

The SEALs raced along behind them, setting up at each doorway. They'd set up a staggered defense, and the creatures seemed determined to slog through each and every level of it.

The next door was torn free from its moorings, and the grenade detonated under the clawed feet of a dark shape. Scully heard screaming, both human and alien. Again the flashes of white gunfire reached out into the smoke, and the hissing grew.

Beneath it was a subtle groaning noise. A nearly subsonic vibration, deeper than the blasts echoing about them. A lone black shape dropped suddenly over a crouching SEAL, and Scully fired her rifle at it.

She didn't aim, or use her second hand. She let the vicious recoil walk the gun up her target, kicking back in a spray of green blood. The glossy black skeletal figure fell, as the soldier jumped to his feet screaming.

Then the deep vibration rose to a thundering pitch, and all standing were knocked from their feet.

White was almost to the end of the tunnel. He could hear a horrific gunbattle echo through the dripping conduit, and he stopped splashing along long enough to listen to the unearthly cries of the aliens. Several explosions thundered through the air, and shook the tunnel through which he ran.

He was running out of time, but he hoped the SEALs managed to kill off some aliens before dying.

It was that hesitation that saved his life. With a boiling hiss, a sea of acid burned through the conduit before Col. White. He fell backward in shock, as an entire section of the oil rig seemed to dissolve before his very eyes. With a roar of destruction, he saw a half-molten section of floor drop through the space in front of him, before he covered his head.

There was a blast of cold air, and a wave of noxious smoke. Then water hit his face. Water rinsing the sour tang of the acid burn from his nose. It the distance, he heard a further roaring, and then the rig began to sway wildly. At last, it stopped, and White released his breath.

Col. White blinked his eyes open. Shocked, he rose on unsteady feet to stare about himself. His injured hand curled in toward his stomach, and his fire burned forgotten on the floor behind him.

Where once the rest of the pylon had stood, with six meters of tunnel, now there was empty air. Several floors of the rig had disappeared into the ocean, victim of the fight raging above. And past the smoking and twisted edges of metal, White saw the foaming sea and the burnished gray masses of the impending storm.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Soun struggled to his feet. Something wrapped itself about his arm, and he staggered sideways into a tilted metal panel. Never letting go of his rifle, the SEAL wiped smoke from his eyes, and found a flimsy metal pushcart entangled about him. He shook it off, and cast about the darkened room.

In short order, Soun realized that the tilted metal panel he leaned against was the wall. The floor itself was canted at an obscene angle, and the entire team was fetched up against the downward wall. From the torn metal, it looked as though the flooring had torn free along the northern face, and dropped down into the rooms below along that side.

The battered door leading toward the alien menace hung askew, and through it rain poured in buckets. Soun clambered over the upended furniture of the lounge, and looked through the doorway. Empty air for sixty feet greeted him, and the sea below was now calm. There was no sign of the missing section of the rig.

A low groan attracted his attention, and Soun returned to his companions. Lt. Quiddis stirred, bleeding from a small cut over his eye. He waved off help, using a torn divan to right himself. Tossing aside a broken mini-fridge, Soun pulled himself toward the two Federal Agents. Mulder was pulled across Dana's lap, her rifle discarded near one hand.

"Hey, you okay? C'mon, nap over, time to come to." Soun shook her shoulder until Scully moaned and opened her eyes. "Scully. You hurt?"

She dropped her head back against the broken chair under her. "Everywhere. Where are those. . . things.?"

"The ocean, it looks like." Scully's brow knitted, and Soun explained as he started checking Mulder for injuries. "I guess all the acid tore through the rig. Dumped a couple of rooms into the Gulf, aliens and all. How's that for handy?" He grinned.

Dr. Scully didn't answer as she felt Mulder's throat and arms. He seemed fine, although he sported a number of small cuts, as did his partner. After convincing herself nothing new was broken, Dana answered Soun. "Lovely. Once I'm out of traction, we can throw a party."

By the time she could focus her eyes on the rest of the room, Scully saw piles of debris shifting enough to reveal the rest of the team. The haze of smoke shrouded the room, but the water sluicing through the demolished ceiling was beginning to wash that away. No longer was the haze enough to conceal the paucity of moving shapes.

"Soun, do a walk around." From the strain in his voice, Quiddis was thinking along similar lines as the Special Agent. "Okay people, call out, now!"

One by one, Whitman, Scully, Meyer, Soun, and Quiddis coughed out a reasonable facsimile of their names. Mulder waved his bandaged hand weakly, but didn't stir from his position in Dana's lap. Soun quickly found one person, the man with the mustache whose name Scully hadn't learned. Only Pryce was unaccounted for.

Whitman scrambled over broken chairs and end tables toward the wounded man. While he poked and prodded, Soun started tossing furniture aside, looking for the few precious boxes of medicine they'd managed to toss into the back rooms.

Quiddis slid down an upended sofa near Scully, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He propped his smoking rifle against one soaked knee, and leaned over toward her. "Hey there Doc. How's Mulder?"

Mulder looked up at the young Lieutenant. "Good enough to be addressed directly, thank you very much."

"Hey, it speaks too!" Quiddis grinned, and tagged him playfully on his wet shoulder. He sobered suddenly, and looked downcast. "About your hand, I-"

"Didn't know any better than I did." Scully held her tongue while the two talked around her. They needed to hash this out themselves, she felt. "Lieutenant, I've nearly bled to death before. If anyone should have noticed, it would be me. I was just. . . distracted."

At that, the two men shared a grin, and a certain tired look. "I guess we were both a little distracted."

"Are you two done with the male bonding, or should I wait a moment?" Despite shivering in her wet clothes, Dana managed to raise her eyebrow archly.

"Yes, mom." Mulder smiled wearily, then sneezed abruptly.

"Quiddis, we're all soaked here, but with Mulder . . ."

"I get it. Well, we're in the worker's part of the rig, so we'll raid their closets while we're here. Then just wait until the chopper gets on station."

Mulder wrapped his arms about himself, not noticing as his hand pressed tightly over Scully's. "We need a place to bunker down from those things."

Scully looked down at him, pushing the damp hair back from his eyes. "Why, Mulder? They all dropped into the ocean. Case closed."

"Maybe, maybe not." Mulder sneezed again, as Quiddis and Scully shared a brief glance. "I'm freezing."

Quiddis stood up, wiping water out of his hair as he hefted the CAR-15. "Whitman, is Paddy mobile?"

Whitman looked up from the arm he was working on. "Sure, with some help, sir. Everything's pretty much cauterized, so he should be okay."

"Love your bedside manner. Intern in a VA hospital?" Paddy flinched as he looked up at the young doctor.

Quiddis overlooked the snipe, and spoke aloud to everyone. "Alright people. Good fallback action there. Way to stick it to them. But we'll proceed on the assumption there're more of those animals out there. We head for the worker's quarters on this level, down to the left."

Soun started in immediately after Quiddis finished. It looked as though the two had planned their words. "Whitman, you help Paddy. Meyer, you and Scully get Mulder. The boss covers the rear, and I'm gonna get there first. Any questions?"

Meyer chirped up. "Yeah, you want me to take point instead?"

"Uh-uh. I get dibbs on the new clothes." Meyer and Whitman managed a short laugh at that. Soun didn't wait to listen; he clambered through the disrupted room to his lieutenant quickly.

"Problem?" Quiddis knew there had to be one.

"Not really. We're just about out of ammo, though. And I'm starving."

"I noticed that. Collect magazines from Whitman and Paddy, and give them to Meyers and me. That'll stretch them a ways. So let's get to it."

White was running back down the length of the tunnel, trying to retrace a way across the missing section of the rig. As was, he was again sopping wet, and feeling more than a little like he was trapped in _The Poseidon Adventure_. He'd laughed when the movie came out, but now all he needed was to climb up a Christmas Tree to complete the mental image.

No one would believe him at the debriefing. They never did, he thought. They just nodded whenever he described the coincidences he regularly ran across in his work. White presumed they'd stopped listening after he described being hit by lightning and left for dead in Ontario. Actually, they'd started listening then.

Shaking all these extraneous thoughts out of his head, White picked up his pace through the oily puddles. He knew he was tired, and the fatigue was sapping his attention. Just then, he'd have killed for two Tylenol and dry feet.

He was shivering so badly in the dark, damp cold of the rig interior, that White knew he'd have to hole up, and dry off again. He was really starting to dislike that SEAL team. They were positively ruining his whole day.

"Out. Out right now."

"Sure, you're gonna do a fistful of buttons by yourself. With your left hand."

"Yes, now leave."

"I'm impressed. I want to see how this is done. Hell, the El-tee would want to see this."

"Now wait-"

"Hey, Quiddis! Scully! Mulder can do all those buttons one handed! Come take a look!" Soun looked back at Agent Mulder, half naked on the bed, and still shivering. Soun remembered his Basic Training, and remembered quite well how many ways there were to make somebody do what they didn't want.

"There are countries where they shoot people for this, you know." Mulder tried pushing his arms through the sleeves of a raspy denim shirt, and succeeded only in tangling and hurting his right hand. "Ow. Damnit."

"Very classy Mulder. Was it Doctor Blockhead that showed you this trick, or did you learn it all on your own?" Mulder stopped flailing with his shirt looking up to the source of the voice floating through the door.

"No, I learned how to get tied up by a friend a long time ago. And I love the wardrobe choice, Scully."

Dana was wearing a pair of dirty gray overalls, cinched up as high as they would go, with the cuffs rolled up to shorten the length. Under that was a tee shirt and a forest green wool shirt whose arms hung about her. Her hair was now pulled back, and tucked into a SF Giant's cap, and no longer hid her flush as she thought of the mess her partner was.

"Well, I've always considered it very chic to be tangled up in your own clothing. Soun, I'll get him dressed." She shooed the SEAL out, and closed the wooden door.

Dana untangled the denim shirt, and pulled it off him gently. She wanted him wearing layered clothing, and so helped him struggle into a tee shirt. Only then did she pull the work shirt about him. She could see from the set to his jaw that he was truly unhappy doing this, but he said nothing.

With more than a little bit of assistance, Mulder managed to get the long sleeved shirt buttoned about him. She insisted on buttoning it all the way up over the tee shirt she'd already managed to tug in place. They managed to strip off his wet denim pants, and Dr. Scully pointedly avoided making any jokes about the ridiculous boxers he insisted on wearing. The problem came when he reached for his dry pants, and she pulled them back out of his reach.

"Scully, I feel silly sitting here. Would you give me my pants?"

"There's no way you're putting them on over wet boxers; you'll catch a cold." She settled her hands on her hips, a comical posture since her clothes made her look like a little girl.

"I've already got a cold."

"You'll make it worse."

Long pause. "All right, but you leave the room first."

"And leave you to play with a men's button fly using your left hand? Sure." She forestalled whatever he was going to say with a raised hand. "Your choice is me or Soun. Whitman's working on Paddy, Quiddis is getting set up, and Meyers is pulling guard duty."

Mulder had to choose, and was damn glad Dana hadn't said anything along the lines of 'It's nothing I haven't seen before.' That was all he would need to burst his fragile good humor. It would be another chance to rekindle their personal little war.

Apparently he was taking too much time thinking. "Mulder. . . it's nothing I haven't-"

"Don't even." He tried glaring at her, and she tried staring him down. They both tried. Instead he sat on the bed wearing wet boxers, and she stood wearing enormously outsized clothes, and they both collapsed laughing.

"Oh hell, would you help me out of these things before I get diaper rash or something." Mulder punctuated his feigned annoyance with a sneeze.

She helped him, out of his shorts, and into the pants. But the buttons were substantially more intimate than either wanted to be with one another. Both cast about for safe topics as rain began pelting the porthole on the far wall.

"Um, why does Quiddis keep calling that soldier Paddy? He doesn't look Irish." Mulder kept his eyes locked on the one remaining light in the room.

"I asked the same question." Dana missed the second button for the third time, inexperienced at doing this from the wrong direction. "He, um, he got the name in SEAL training. Apparently, he kept diving into a rice paddy just before they got hit by mock ambushes. Now everyone on the team calls him that."

Fox heard the exasperation in her voice. "What's wrong?"

"Damn. Are you sure these pants are your size?"

Whatever he was thinking, he knew he absolutely could not meet her gaze. He looked at her in the twilight of the room, her face flushed, slightly breathless. Fox looked away, finding the sight of the approaching storm utterly fascinating.

"They're my size. Listen, why don't you go get Soun to do this. The buttons are all backward to you."

"No, you don't need everyone parading through your shorts." Just me, she thought, and winced. "Listen, how about if I get it from behind you?"

"What?"

"I stand behind you. That way, the buttons are facing the right direction."

"Okay, sounds like a plan and a half." Both were thinking the same thing; and I won't have to see your face.

Mulder quickly found that having his partner pressed against him from behind scarcely helped at all. Much to his relief, she had something to talk about.

"Do you remember any of what happened with Glad?" Her low voice was guarded, for many reasons.

"You mean after I got hit?" He felt her nod against his back as she did up another button. "Yes. Quiddis bought that jerk's story hook line and sinker. I was too weak to do anything, and if I had tried to warn the lieutenant, Glad might have spotted me."

Dana finished her work, and backed off rapidly, the room too hot for her. "What about the catwalk?" Fox turned, and looked at her askance. "The catwalk, where we caught up to you?" Mulder shook his head, and sat down on the low bed. "The three of you were coming across a catwalk toward us when Glad opened fire. Obviously he was trying to kill us, but do you think-"

"Quiddis? No way. He's on our side" Mulder rubbed at his nose fitfully.

"Are you sure of that?"

"As sure as you are of your uncle." He leaned back against the low headboard, obviously tired. With his rumpled shirt and worn jeans, he almost looked normal again.

"How did you end up with his gun?" Finally she had a chance to ask a question that had been bothering her for a while.

Mulder's slited eyes opened briefly, two wedges of hematite in the dark. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. "He freaked. We found . . . bodies, Scully. All of them, I think. Anyway, we were walking through blood, and gunk, and he just locked up for a moment."

There was a long silence as Dana tried to think of a suitable reply. She'd seen her partner freeze under pressure before, and understood why it was a normal response. But how could she express her worry about Quiddis without implicitly suggesting Mulder was 'less than stable?'

Fox knew his partner too well to overlook her hesitation. "He's fine. He was just startled by something he wasn't prepared for. It happens to everyone, even us."

Dana sat on the bed by Mulder's feet and pursed her lips before diving into a difficult topic. "I know. And I'm sorry if the . . . idea, of my social life startled you." Scully felt that it did much more than startle him, but couldn't very well say that to him. "I know we don't talk much about our private lives.''

Mulder pulled himself upright at this. "Scully." He sounded dreadfully tired as he sighed. "I shouldn't have sniped at you the way I did. It was childish and stupid. But it had nothing to do with your weekend."

Scully's eyes asked her question without words. It was hard to read expressions in the near dark of the small room, but he was so familiar with her face that no light was needed. Suddenly Fox wondered whether or not he'd told the truth when he'd said that her weekend out had not bothered him. He kept his eyes blank in the darkness, and tried to answer her silent question as though he hadn't doubted himself.

"It wasn't that you went out on the town. But you left your phone behind, didn't say a word about it-"

"Like you do?" Dana felt she had to at least say something, the way her cheeks were burning.

"And you lied to me about everything. If you didn't want to talk about it, tell me to shut up and go away. But I'm not Wilson, or Skinner, or one of the newbie agents for you to brush off at the water cooler." His chest was tight, and Fox tried to pretend it was only the cold that he felt. "Don't you trust me enough not to lie?"

For a moment, the two watched one another in the dark, each trying desperately to read the mind of the other. Mulder broke first. "I trust you. You know I do." The harsh planes of his face clashed incongruously with his wavering voice. It was the voice of a scared child, a sound that reminded Dana of the anger she'd read in Bill Mulder's face. God, she wondered, what had broken his trust so badly, scarred him so deeply?

She closed her eyes against her tears and Fox's eyes. If he saw a trace of pity now, he'd bite back. He was hurt and tired, and this was a pain as old as she was. His caustic words were his only defense, as they'd always been. And that pain, accidentally displayed as it was, should still be private. Until the time he wanted for her to see it.

She couldn't touch him. She didn't know what she'd do if she did, nor did she want to know how Fox would respond. "I have always trusted you. You know that." Dana found herself fingering her crucifix, and stilled her hands in her lap.

Fox watched the bit of gold flicker at her throat, and willed himself not to cringe. When she'd vanished, that was all he had left of her. Even now, it reminded Mulder that he had failed her, that he always did. And how could he sit here and accuse her, hurt her? She tolerated him, all the problems he caused. These were his files, his job that ruined her private life, nearly killed her.

He sucked in a ragged breath. "I seem to be stuck apologizing today, huh Scully?" He tried desperately to conceal his feelings behind a light tone, and hoped she would let him.

"I understand." I guess I understand a lot, she thought. More than you want, less than I should. Wouldn't it be nice to one day say all these things to one another? In the dark, in the midst of long stakeouts next to Agent Mulder, she smiled sometimes when she thought about him. For her partner, the only truths he really wanted to examine were out there, safely away from his private self. Sometimes that thought didn't make her smile.

A long time passed in silence, as Scully worked through thoughts she rarely permitted herself. Mulder merely watched the shifting lines of his partner's face, and mentally flagellated himself for having ever said a word to her.

Dana stood up, and moved to the door. "You rest for now, okay? I'm taking a watch, and Soun's coming in to sack out."

Mulder knew there was nothing for him to say. He would betray himself, or hurt her, or do something wrong. After a lifetime of errors, he'd learned much about the unwitting damage he seemed to wreak about himself. So he grinned blankly and nodded, an expression he had faked for as long as he could remember. He'd had to learn young.

With a melancholy smile on her lips, Dana left the room. And Mulder lay in the dark, and tried not to sleep.

The steadily increasing din of the falling rain became a counterpoint to the mounting pain in his hand. Lying still didn't stop the ache. He'd tried performing multiplication tables in his head, composing choice imprecations to hurl at Defense Department officials, even reciting English poetry. None of them had helped. Mulder's wounded hand seemed to throb, and burn, and it certainly broke what little of his concentration remained. But it kept Fox awake, and thinking, so he didn't complain. Besides, it seemed fitting to him that he suffer a little bit in the dark.

Fox was still lying awake when the door to his room opened and a man slid in. He was short and square and, silhouetted by the light from the hallway, his black crew-cut shone with red highlights. Soun, it had to be.

"Yo, Mulder, you awake?" Soun whispered in the darkness.

So, Mulder thought, they don't need me right now. If they did, Soun wouldn't take his time. Fox decided to simply ignore the big SEAL.

Not hearing a reply, Soun shuffled up to the bed and slid in. He tucked the covers around Fox and himself, not bothering to remove his boots. Dr. Scully had been explicit in her instructions; try to get him to take his pain medication if he's still awake. And no matter what, keep him warm. And so Agent Mulder now found a large Asian marine with a crew cut draped heavily across his chest.

The room was quiet for several seconds.

"Corporal Soun, nice to meet you. I don't think we've been formally introduced." Fox held out his bandaged right hand before Soun's face.

Soun pushed himself upright and smacked Mulder on his chest, laughing. "Sorry I woke you. Now go back to sleep."

"I don't sleep much. And I don't usually take Navy men to bed with me, so I don't think I'll be napping just now."

"Yeah, well Feds aren't my first pick either, man." Soun chuckled, but Mulder wondered if that were true. After all, Scully had been surprised that it was Mulder who had showed up last night. He shook aside his thoughts as Soun continued.

"Anyway, your partner wants to drug you up. For your hand." Soun dug into the pocket of his new, dry shirt and produced two small white tablets.

"She has the drugs, I have the problem." Fox made no move to take the medication. "But that still doesn't explain why you're in my bed." His enunciation was clear and distinct as he spoke.

"Well, the rig is freezing, and apparently you're Number One on the hypothermia hit parade. Someone's got to sleep in here to keep you warm, and I'm the man."

"Lucky me." Fox rubbed a sore spot on his ribs, trying to figure out if this instant punishment meant that there had to be a god to mete it out.

"Yup. So, you want your pills?" Soun shook them in his hand like he was rolling craps.

Mulder paused a moment before answering sardonically. "You seem to be having fun with them, you keep 'em. I'll just stay here and rest up, alone."

Soun's good humor was being depleted rapidly. "Sorry my friend, but if I go back without having given you your meds, Scully'll work me over. It's you or me," Soun took Mulder's limp left hand and pressed the tablets into his palm. "and I choose you."

"You're all heart." Fox lifted his hand to his mouth, and dropped both pills down his sleeve. The darkness covered his deceit, and Mulder compounded it by feigning to swallow. "Okay, you can face Scully safely now."

"Nu-uh Mulder. Now we catch some sleep." Soun lay back on the hard and narrow mattress, hoping Mulder would be too tired and drugged to fight this out.

"We can." Mulder wasn't subtle in emphasizing the 'we' as he spoke. "Separately."

"You need the warmth." And Soun needed the sleep.

"I need a blanket." Fox considered the Chief to be a baby-sitter, a situation he found intolerable.

"You need a warm body, 'cause you don't have one of your own." Ain't that the truth! "Now if I'm not good enough, I can pull Scully offa guard duty, and she can sleep with you. Would that be better?"

Mulder blanched. Soun would most certainly make good on his threat, and in doing so sink any chance Fox had of remaining in Dana's good graces. Saying anything to Soun now would only dig Fox in deeper. Wisely, he kept his peace.

The dark room returned to its silence, and to the stillness of two men trying not to move.

Soun found himself listening to the older man's breathing, trying to gauge his sleeping patterns. Mulder hadn't seemed all that surprised to find someone in bed with him. Nor did he behave like a man just waking up. It was a genuine possibility he was indeed not sleeping when Soun entered the room, just playing possum. Now Fox's breathing was long and deep, as rhythmic as a pendulum. And it was very likely it was just as false as before.

Soun wanted to understand; after suffering blood loss and shock, what could keep agent Mulder awake? Well, he'd nodded off last night so he probably wasn't running on hundred milligram Happy Pills. Soun would understand if Mulder stopped sleeping once they got back to the mainland; he'd seen things here that should scare men to death. But in training they said that out here, troops still slept. They were wired too high not to flake out at night.

Could it be the pain, he wondered. Too much to sleep, not enough to knock him out. But if that were the case, how could he lie there so calmly, pretending to be asleep? And why would he fight against taking pain medication? Soun had broken several ribs in a dive accident, and knew how bad cracked bone could feel. Nothing could have kept him away from the Tylenol and codeine he'd been taking. After all, machismo only went so far before masochism took over.

Why was he awake all night? Could it be this guy's 'spooky' mind that kept him awake? Quiddis had hinted that this man often knew what you were thinking before you did yourself. Maybe he stayed up all night ruminating, thinking about what happened around him.

If so, what was he thinking about right now?

Agent Scully was Soun's best bet. He'd heard the fighting, and he'd heard the silence too. It was almost funny; they were fighting for their lives in the middle of an ocean but they'd still make time to bicker. He tried to picture himself with his girlfriend, both toting rifles into combat. He couldn't believe for a moment that his mind would be on the objective. Oh no, he'd be focused entirely on her safety. And she was a half-Tongan nurse, no wilting daisy. Maybe that was how Mulder made it; Dana was a lot of things, but wilting wasn't one of them. Maybe he wasn't distracted because she was so damn competent. Of course, Mulder did get himself shot, so maybe he got distracted after all.

And what would it be like, sex with a firebrand like that? He'd heard stories about redheads. . .

Soun wanted to know if Mulder was still faking sleep despite the drugs and the injury. And he wanted to get his mind off other things, too. "Hey feddie . . ."

"Yes, I'm awake. No, I don't know what my partner's like in the sack. And yes, this is what I do when I can't sleep." Actually, he usually liked to listen to inane television shows that kept his mind from running like this. But in the absence of anything to relieve his insomnia, toying with the locals would have to suffice. Who knew, maybe it would get the young soldier to shut up and leave him alone.

Soun turned to stare at Mulder's clean, hard profile. Even after the gunbattles and explosions, he still looked as though he arose hale and hearty from a fashion magazine. "You don't have too many friends, do you?"

Mulder blinked. "You always ask questions like that in bed?" He easily managed his cool and aloof tone, despite the fact that the unanticipated question hit him from left field.

"About as often as you answer questions I haven't asked." Mulder parted his generous lips for a retort, but Soun cut him off. "And you're dodging the question. Do you have many friends? Apart from Dana."

"So it's 'Dana' now? You two seem to have hit it off quick." Mulder tried to keep his eyes closed, his breathing light, and his words neutral. But he almost reflexively sneered the words, surprised at the vehemence fatigue drew from him.

"Yes. Is that a problem for you?" Bingo, Soun thought. He's got a green monster on his back. I wonder what's really up between him and his partner?

"No. It's none of my business." Neither man believed this, but both let the matter rest. "Now do you mind if we get some sleep?"

Whoa, hell of a turn around, the Corporal thought. He must really not want to talk about his partner. "Yeah, we'll need our rest while we can get it." Soun had no illusions; he was sure Mulder would lie awake for hours more, listening to the pain in his hand. But Soun couldn't permit him to indulge in self-flagellation. If Fox didn't rest, he'd slow the team down on the way to the extraction point a few floors above them. And time was a luxury they wouldn't have.

Both men jostled briefly in the bed, conscious of the cold, their animosity, and Fox's bullet wound. Soun lay still, and tried to think of something to say that would put Mulder's mind at ease. It seemed insurmountable, trying to reach a man who worked so hard to push everyone away.

As Soun planned a strategy, Mulder's breathing lapsed back into the steady rhythm that was very much a lie. Soun waited and watched, despairing of his chances to find some verbal trick that would coax Mulder out of this shell and into much needed rest.

Several minutes passed, and Soun was fighting off his own lethargy. There was no doubt in his mind that Fox was shamming, however. He just couldn't think of how the man could do so after he'd taken all those drugs.

Or had he?

The Federal Agent hadn't wanted to take the medications in the first place; he'd only done so to quiet Soun. It was conceivable he had pocketed the pills. It made too much sense to Soun.

The longer Soun thought about Mulder's demonstrable tendencies toward self-destruction, the more he convinced himself that Fox had not taken those pills. It would perfectly match the foolhardy bravado Fox displayed when he ran off alone through the rig. And it disturbed Soun on many levels. Courage was one thing, but this was something completely different. Both Mulder and he were needed, and all this was merely subtracting from their total downtime.

After several minutes, the Corporal leaned in close toward his bunkmate. "Mulder," Soun whispered. "Yo, Mulder. I know you're faking again, and I want you asleep."

He received no answer. Not a twitch in the darkened room.

"The team needs you up and running when we evac. So take those damn pills and go to sleep." Soun's hissed words drew no response. "Damnit, Fox, she needs you up and running!"

Mulder's given name spun him around like a slap. "Don't call me Fox." Soun opened his mouth to laugh off the outburst when Mulder cut him off. "Ever."

Soun licked his lips before replying to that rough growl, so unlike the silky smooth voice he'd become accustomed to hearing. "Okay. You wanna-"

"No. I don't want to talk about resting. I don't want to talk about me taking a handful of fucking pills. I don't want to talk about my private life, and," his voice dropped to a whisper as he pushed himself nose to nose with the square-jawed SEAL, "I will never talk to you about Dana or my sister. Understand?"

Soun had trained for and fenced with every conceivable battlefield weapon used by man. It occurred to him that somewhere along the line, he'd tripped a landmine. And it was a Bouncing Betty; the sort of nastiness that leapt up to look you in the eye before it detonated. He didn't like the hole he'd dug for himself, and he didn't understand why Quiddis felt that this guy was worth the trouble. But he knew it was his duty to get one shit-crazy Feddie back up to flank speed, and fast.

While Soun's thoughts whirred about fitfully, Mulder's anger deflated with a sigh, and he rubbed his eyes with his good hand. "I'm sorry. I never really liked my name, I guess. And what with everything here-" Soun felt the bed bounce abruptly as the older man coughed. There was something hidden in the way Fox's fatigue had brought up his sister, and Soun wondered at it more than the signs of impending illness. The SEAL recognized the explanation offered for Mulder's outburst for the lie it was. But he also recognized that whatever pain was buried there should remain untouched.

"S'okay Mulder. I'm just pushing you 'cause the team needs you. Not everyone works that way, I guess."

"No." Mulder dropped heavily back onto the bed, shifting away from Soun. "I've never been much of a team player."

"I wasn't either, at first. But you kind of get pressed into it, when your team needs help badly."

"I don't get pressed much. Impressed or repressed." Mulder stared at the ceiling of clouds through the darkened porthole and sniffled.

"No, just depressed." Soun regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. Much to his surprise and relief, Mulder laughed softly.

"I guess that's what it looks like to everyone else. That's why I'm not much of a team player."

Soun thought momentarily before replying. "Not quite. You impressed the hell out of the El-tee. And your partner really does need you."

Mulder glanced sideways briefly. "Soun, you know where all my training came from?"

"Quantico. Feds share a base with the Marines."

"But before that, I did my work in psychology. This gung ho crap is wearing thin." He ruffled his hair absently. "Seriously, just drop it. Okay?"

Soun paused again, this time only briefly. "What's wrong with working together a little bit?"

"Jesus! You're like some mindless drone. Don't you ever give it a rest?" Mulder was seriously considering taking the covers and retreating across the room at this point, but another cough stopped him.

Soun smiled. "We don't rest. We just get reinforcements." Fox didn't reply, and instead stared blankly at the far wall. "Hel-lo? Mulder? I say something wrong?"

"No." Fox's voice was soft and thoughtful. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You're a genius."

With that enigmatic reply still hanging in the cold air, Mulder tossed off the covers and pushed himself to his feet. The room was almost freezing, and the rush of blood in Fox's head was dizzying enough to slow him, but he made his way to the door. Soun was a pace behind him.

"Yo, Mulder! What's going on?" He caught up with the reedy Federal Agent in the midst of the common area. Puzzled, Quiddis looked back and forth between the two men. Scully merely wrinkled her brows at Fox.

"We're in trouble." Paddy rolled his eyes, Meyers laughed, and behind Mulder, Soun coughed. Mulder paid no attention to the results his comment received.

Scully raised her eyebrows. As much as she wanted to join in the general humor at such a statement, she knew Mulder was on to something. "What is it?"

Mulder dropped into a chair across from Quiddis and Scully. "Why are these things trying to kill us?"

Scully blinked, and narrowed her eyes. What had the creature's behavior told Mulder that it hadn't told her? "Food? Territoriality?"

"Um, how 'bout 'who cares'?" Paddy tossed his thoughts in from across the room, but was ignored.

Fox coughed into his bandage before speaking. "No, Scully. Think about our arrival. If they wanted us out of their territory, why hold off until we walked into the center of the rig."

She continued his thought. "Until we walked into a trap."

"Exactly. They wanted us in here." Dana nodded in time with Mulder's words.

Quiddis interrupted. "That's nice for them, but so what? So they don't want to scare us, just eat us. I'm thrilled."

Agent Mulder turned his intense gaze on the lieutenant. In the flickering half-light of the ruined lounge, his pale face and black eyes became nearly spectral. "Remember all the bodies we found? Pinned to the roof of the bay?"

Quiddis managed to nod in reply. He had no doubts that he would remember that sight until the day he died. Fortunately, Mulder didn't wait for him to say a word.

"If they were food, why weren't they eaten? The bodies were rotten, not consumed. All the meat was intact, nothing pulled off. And there were so many bodies, there couldn't have been many missing. And the cause of death appeared to be those holes in their chests."

Scully sat back, pale. "Wasps," she whispered to herself.

Mulder's elation at figuring the situation out dimmed at the revulsion in his partner's face. Tight lipped, he could only nod at her.

"WASPs?" Quiddis shook his head. "I'm no Protestant, and Soun ain't white. Does that mean we can go?"

That elicited something akin to a laugh from Scully. "Not WASP. Wasps. As in the little bugs that sting you." Dana shivered, and continued. "Some wasps use their venom to paralyze their prey. They leave it catatonic, and lay eggs in it. That way their young have a living incubator. Until they hatch."

The dingy room was that much more cold and silent when she finished. No one knew what to say, leaving all present to remember the lashing black monstrosities they fought. Someone coughed into his hand, not wanting to make a noise.

It was Soun who spoke first into the chill silence. "So, do you have a reason for telling us all this? Aside from keeping us from falling asleep." Meyers and Whitman laughed nervously at this.

Mulder stood up shakily. "If they were attacking us for most any reason, we'd have taught them a lesson by now. Like any animal. They attack, we kill some. They attack again, we kill more. Eventually they'd stay away."

Scully gazed at the assembled soldiers as she picked up. "But if they rely on us for. . . reproduction, every loss we inflict increases their need to catch us. It starts with the reproductive drive. After we beat them off, they needed to replace their numbers. By now, the need for more . . . members . . . must be critical"

Quiddis closed his eyes against the looks of shock his soldiers were exchanging. He needed a moment to think coldly, rationally. He needed to anticipate his adversaries, and act to counter their moves. Just like before all this happened.

"Okay, people! We've got work to do." All eyes turned to face the lieutenant. He'd cleaned himself off, and now wore a dull workman's shirt and bomber jacket over a muscle shirt and his combat web gear. "This suite of rooms is one pressure compartment. Half inch steel and reinforced welding. That and the locked pressure doors will slow them down. But we need to cut off all the ways in while leaving routes to escape. Options?"

Scully chimed in first. "Air ducts. I saw one come up through the air ducts." She shot a knowing look and hidden smile at her partner. This almost seemed familiar.

Paddy winced as he shifted and began thinking out loud. "Air ducts?" That means plumbing, electrical, and ventilation are compromised. They're wired through the floor and ceiling . . ."

Suddenly the team was a flurry of activity, watching the very floor beneath their feet or the ceiling above them. Under Quiddis' direction, they ripped the drop ceiling apart, and began tracing all the tubes back to their sources in the watertight steel walls. The internal walls were metal frames and sheetrock, nothing sturdy enough to bother with.

The number and variety of 'special equipment' the soldiers were carrying was shocking, and all of it was put to use. Pipes were cut using diamond-studded wire loops as saws. Venting ducts were torn down, and crumpled up to bar access through the open holes in the walls. Shattered porcelain from the remains of the dismantled bathroom was scattered down each of the electrical and air ducts. A dumbwaiter Mulder found hidden in one corner underneath a Grateful Dead poster was the hardest to seal. Instead, it was trapped with the last of the grenades, each duct-taped to the inside walls on the level above and below this one. The nest of tripwires was well nigh impassable.

"Okay." Soun leaned against a debris-strewn divan. "That won't stop 'em, but we'll know which direction they're coming from."

Mulder eyed the one porthole in this room nervously. It only opened from the inside, and the exterior was a sheer wall that dropped one hundred and fifty feet to the ocean below. Failing all else, it was the last route left out of the makeshift bunker. The chances of swimming through the freezing water in the middle of a storm on the open sea weren't good. But they were still preferable to capture.

Scully drifted over and touched Mulder on the shoulder gently. He acknowledged her presence without removing his gaze from the wall upon which it was fixed.

"Don't you think it's time you got some rest?" Scully's eyes slid over his handsome features and the cold set of his hazel eyes as she spoke. She couldn't think of how she could convince him to recuperate, but she had to try.

"Scully, rest won't help us much if I can't anticipate their next attack." His good hand absently picked at the seam of his jeans. They were a little loose in the hips, and didn't feel right.

Dana walked around him, coming to stand between him and the wall. She caught his troubled eyes, matching his intensity with her own determined, piercing gaze. "You are too tired to walk straight, let alone psychoanalyze those . . . things."

This brought a worn grin to his face, and he at last focused upon his disheveled partner's alabaster features. "What? You're still not convinced those 'things' are of extraterrestrial origin?"

His small grin was infectious, and spread rapidly. "We need more evidence. For all I know, they're deep sea crabs with an attitude."

Still smiling, Fox started to lean forward, his eyes drifting closed. "Okay, Mulder. Time to go to bed. Soun and Meyer can take watch. I'm off too."

She was thankful Mulder didn't put up too much resistance as she led him back to the bunks, and tucked him in like a child. She nestled in next to him, above the covers, and lay her rifle down across them. Some hours later, he covered her hand with his own.

Every footfall slammed out another booming percussion as Glad ran. When the SEAL team demolished a full wing of the rig, they had also inadvertently cut him off from his route of escape. Now he was fleeing through an empty oil processing tank, using the inspection doors along the bottom for access. The tar-like muck that lined the bottom of these towering shells impeded his progress, but that was to be expected. Besides, he hadn't encountered a single alien as he ran, and he was thanking providence with each panting breath.

As he ran through the second tank, he considered the burning pain in his shoulder and his ill fortune at Mulder's hands. When he had encountered Mulder and Quiddis back at the elevator, he was mere yards away from freedom. Now he was running for his life and almost defenseless.

He was ten or twelve feet from the next doorway when he realized he was not alone at the bottom of the tank.

Fox crept stealthily toward the chair in the corner of the room. Sliding out of bed and away from Scully had been no particular problem. She was dead to the world, and the bed had so little bounce that he couldn't possibly have roused her as he rolled away. And now he moved to occupy a dingy gray recliner off in one corner of the room.

Behind him was the yawning maw of the dumbwaiter, and across the room was the solitary porthole for escape. Somewhere, midway between, his partner lay dozing, giving him leave to think in peace. And the oil-stained indoor-outdoor carpeting muffled his footsteps well as he retreated past the wreckage of a ping-pong table toward a comfortable chair. There was no chance he'd disturb her sleep.

The SEALs had nodded to him briefly when he'd awoken, but let him be. Mulder guessed this was Quiddis' doing. At least the soldiers were now giving him some breathing room, even if they hadn't handed him a rifle. He understood why; with his hand torn and bandaged, there was little chance he could handle the recoil of an assault rifle. The team was low on weapons and ammo anyway, and couldn't spare one. Besides, Mulder had never handled a rifle before, even in the Violent Crimes Division; he doubted he could load and chamber a round in the brutish matte black weapons they were using.

Fox wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, and thought about his partner. He knew full well he'd been thinking about the team's weapons purely as a means of avoiding all consideration of Dana. Much easier to focus on a problem he had some vague chance of successfully solving, Mulder thought.

He remembered waking up next to Dana, smelling her hair, her sweat. It was uncomfortable enough to drive him out of the warm bed and into the room proper. His thoughts were interrupted by his muffled sneeze.

Damn cold, he thought. No way am I ending up in a hospital after this. This is all outpatient stuff. I'm just taking over my couch with one of Scully's afghans, and sleeping for a week.

Mulder chewed his lip, and thought of her and Soun both piling into bed to keep him warm. Doubtless, they'd been doing the same thing while he'd been unconscious. It would explain the sore ribs; Dana rolled in her sleep. He wasn't actively upset with Soun and Dana anymore. Everyone here just had different ways of doing things. And Dana just worked better with Soun than with him. There was no way either of those two could know that he couldn't sleep with someone else next to him.

It was just the idea of lying there unconscious next to someone that bothered him. He couldn't relax, sometimes couldn't close his eyes. It was a peculiarity that had doomed more than one relationship, some on their first night. Waking up to find your lover sleeping out on the couch didn't promote intimacy too well. Neither did waking to find him dressing and heading out the door at two in the morning.

It was so sadly classic that it almost made Fox smile. As a psychologist, he knew exactly where this aversion came from. Another manifestation of-

Mulder's thoughts were cut off as he felt the short cropped hairs across the back of his neck rise in unison. He'd heard a soft thump from Scully. And with the sole exception of her nightly tossing, she never made soft thumping noises. And Fox didn't see her move.

Thump-thump.

Fox squinted hard, and realized the noise was coming from the floor next to the bed. There, three large brass bolts were rolling about on the mildewed floor. As his eyes widened in the dark, a fourth bolt unscrewed itself from the fitting surrounding the porthole, and fell next to its companions.

Fox jumped to his feet as the porthole was pulled out, and twelve long, insecticidal fingers wrapped about the rim of the open hole. His yell died in his throat as the creature pulled itself inside soundlessly, and perched upon the wall above Dana's sleeping form.

Glad clawed at the tattered shreds of his jacket as he sprinted across the soiled floor of the oil processing tank. The raw pain from his wounded arm screamed in his ears almost as loudly as the nightmare beast that dropped to the floor behind him.

Glad kept his tearing eyes firmly affixed to the half open door in front of him, never tossing a futile glance over his shoulder. And so he missed the sight of the three grotesques that paused to crouch a moment amidst the sticky residue upon the floor. The leader parted its thin lips and bared crystalline teeth in an unholy smile as saliva dropped to the floor, smoking faintly. Its long, wickedly sharp tail flickered momentarily about its shoulders before it leapt into motion.

All four of its ghoulish limbs kicked into action, four sets of claws digging through the goo to find purchase on the floor below. Each bound brought it a yard closer to its frantic, panting target. One of the others leapt ten feet to the curving wall above, climbing with inhuman agility toward Glad's head.

Glad was two steps from the door when his hand caught upon its target. As he struggled to free the simple red cylinder from his pocket, doubled sets of claws reached about his face and dragged him to an immediate stop.

And in a panic born of utter desperation, Glad snapped the marker flare alight and cast it into the oil behind him.

The magnesium fire set torch to the thick industrial sludge as easily as if it were kerosene. Claws tore into the side of Glad's face as the beast tumbled backwards in a whirlwind of flailing limbs. The hissing was incredible, as was the sudden rush of heat that enveloped Glad.

Blinded by a sudden rush of fumes and blood, Glad sprinted forward once more. The air was cooler suddenly, but he could feel the fire on the outside of his fatigues. From the torturous pain he felt, some distant part of his mind guessed that the Nomex wouldn't help for very much longer. Without warning, he ran headfirst into a cool metal wall, fear blinding him to the pain of the sudden impact. Frantic with his fear, Glad stumbled left, then right before hitting an obstruction just below waist level. His yelp of pain cut short, Glad tumbled forward and down.

Agent Mulder eyed the alien in absolute stillness. For its part, the creature moved so silently that Fox couldn't even hear it. Mulder was hard pressed to keep himself from gasping for air as the monster lowered itself onto the floor next to his partner. He tried to swallow around a dry throat as his mind whirred.

There was only one of those...things in the room, and no others were visible through the open porthole. And this one merely swung its eyeless muzzle about, as if scanning the room. Half panicked and half amazed, Mulder had to wonder why the creature hadn't killed him or Dana yet.

Still locked in her dream world, Dana mumbled under her breath. Quickly the thing's head snapped about, its raspy breath dribbling viscous saliva on the already stained carpet. It opened its nightmare mouth and hissed as it stepped toward the bedside.

Mulder gasped, and the creature's head snapped about, the tendons taut over its glossy shell. With epiphanic speed Mulder realized that this thing must hunt by sound or motion. Neither he nor Scully had been harmed because both were quiet and still. How long that safety lasted was entirely up for debate.

The options as Fox saw them were grim indeed. He would have to get past that thing to reach Dana's rifle, a damningly poor prospect even were he in the best of condition. There would be no time for Scully to do anything herself; indeed if she so much as moved again, the creature hovering about her hissing was likely to kill her. The SEALs might be able to rush in and save them both. Perhaps. But Mulder knew full well that he was standing in the line of fire, and Dana was well within the area likely to be bathed in the thing's blood.

One of the SEALs in the other room laughed out loud, and the faint noise of the alien's breathing disappeared entirely. With precise slowness, it placed one hand on the bed. Then, moments later, the next. With bloodcurdling deliberateness it started to stalk towards the door, moving soundlessly over Scully herself.

Mulder was washed with cold as he saw the ribs and tendons stretch and flex with every motion the monstrosity made. He paled as he watched it place one septadactyl hand along Dana's fair face. Then he saw the shadow of an approaching SEAL in the doorway.

"No!" Fox stepped away from the wall, waving his hands in front of him. He couldn't raise his voice for fear of rousing his partner. "Here! Here."

With a fluid motion, the creature fled the bed, instead dangling from the bare pipes over head. Hanging down, its spiked back cleared Dana by less than two feet. It hissed loudly, and turned toward Mulder.

Quiddis cleared the doorway, and in Fox's stark terror it seemed as though he moved in slow motion. Over the shoulder of the gruesome apparition, Mulder saw pure amazement sketched on the lieutenant's suddenly pale features. The SEAL struggled to loose his rifle from its strap around one shoulder as the alien came to life in a bundle of uncontained kinetic energy.

It dropped to the ground, spinning onto its feet like a panther. No sooner was it down than its powerful legs uncoiled to drive it toward Fox, its salivating jaws parted to reveal its inner mouth. There was no mistaking its banshee cry as it rushed the wounded agent.

Fox had only one option left, one he was forced to take without thinking. Trusting that the strength of his swimmer's legs hadn't drained away with his blood, Fox threw himself backwards into the small opening for the dumbwaiter. Behind him, the beast slammed one claw into the floor where he had stood, gouging out a great section of carpeting. Dana awoke just in time to see Mulder's feet disappear down the shaft.

She screamed as the enraged fiend leapt down the shaft after him.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Glad's uncontrolled fall was halted in a rush of water. The stinging slap of contact robbed him of what little air he had left in his lungs, and left him choking as he fought back toward the surface of the dark water. Gasping, he broke free of the suffocating water, only to find himself gagging on the stench in the air that he had so pitifully fought for.

He barely managed to find the ladder on the side of the tank he had fallen into. The darkness obscured all details, and his eyes were still stinging from the smoke. The blood flowing freely from the cuts on his face mingled with the tainted water and worked to further blind him.

The ladder itself was a difficult chore. Between the gunshot and the fire, he had only one limb still fully functional.

At the top, he finally found the reason for the God-awful stench. He'd stumbled into Waste Water Treatment Vat #2.

And he was several yards and many profanities along before it occurred to him to be grateful for his good fortune.

The trip wire wrapped itself about Mulder as he fell, and held tight as he passed the explosives. They remained anchored to the wall as he accelerated away at thirty-two feet per second squared.

His pursuer had barely descended past the lip of the opening into the shaft before the explosives package fired with a dull whump. There was only a brief orange glow before the shock wave tore the fanged hunter apart, sending its ravaged carcass tumbling after Fox.

Mulder hit the laundry bags two floors down and started rolling, clenching his jaw to ignore the grinding in his shoulder. No sooner had he fetched up against a pile of moldering dishrags than the dead creature fell to the floor behind him.

He had hardly enough time to register the shattered harlequin grin, locked in an obscene rictus. Then its burning green blood sent up a foul cloud of sulphurous smoke, and the broken body dropped through the now molten floor. Fox's eyes were locked on the smoking hole the monster left in its stead, thinking just how close death had come.

Shaking away a sudden attack of mortality, Fox tried to come to his feet. He fell over suddenly when he tried to apply pressure to his right arm. From the nauseating pain burning across his collar, he guessed something had broken. It hadn't hurt this much when he'd dislocated his shoulder in high school. In the end, he sweated it out and pulled himself to his feet using his left hand. It took him several moments to begin to untangle the mess of wire that had wound itself about him in the course of his brief fall.

Skirting the charred hole in the floor, Agent Mulder edged his way over toward the shaft he'd leapt down. Pieces of blackened aluminum twisted into pure curves by the blast littered the ground, making his steps doubly treacherous. Added to the ringing he heard in his ears, it made passage difficult. Upon closing the distance, he painfully craned his neck about in order to glance back up the shaft. Steel beams blocked the way, and nothing but darkness was cast down toward him where he stood at the bottom.

Doctor Scully popped the clip loose from her rifle, and checked the slit down the left side of the stiffened box. She saw dull gleams from the sides of six rounds. That meant she had eleven rounds left. Grimly she swatted the clip back into place and reset the CAR-15 to single fire.

Quiddis finished resealing the battered porthole, and turned to face her. He spoke softly. "We just got word from the _Elliot_. Blackhawk's en route, ETA twelve minutes."

Dana found Quiddis' pistol, and thrust it into one of the gaping pockets of her overalls. "That's just enough time."

She sprinted over to the open hole in the wall, waving aside the black smoke rising up into the still air. "Mulder! Mulder, can you hear me?" The smoke burned the back of her throat and deep in her nose, but she listened for a reply that wasn't forthcoming.

She turned to see the remaining members of the team gathered quietly near the bed. "Where does this shaft empty out?"

Soun didn't meet her eyes as the Lieutenant spoke. "We've got to evacuate. Now."

Her eyes flashed as she advanced on Quiddis. "We will." She emphasized this subtly. "All of us."

"Doc." Soun spoke without looking up. "That's a two story drop, a two pack concussion, and one of those things on his tail. He's ..."

"He's probably hurt and needs help." Dana pulled the chamber bolt back on the left side of her weapon, chambering a round. "Now we're wasting time-"

Her sharp words were silenced by the sound of breaking glass. Shards careened through the room, forcing Dana to shield her eyes with her arm. The envenomed tail that had burst through the porthole withdrew sharply, leaving space for the creature to crawl in.

Agent Scully fired from the hip, the large rifle jerking out of control. But her single round hit the skeletally gaunt figure under the chin, just above Meyer's three rounds.

The abrupt sounds of a man screaming startled Agent Scully, whipping her around with an almost physical force. Whitman was screaming in blind panic as he was dragged backward into one of the electrical conduits. But before Dana could move to help, she caught sight of a chattering black form bounding across the floor to her left.

She threw herself away from the onrushing alien, the edge of her bed catching her across the small of the back. Her first two shots flew high, barely missing Soun as he unlatched one of the main doorways. With a crackling shriek, the alien leapt into the air, claws outstretched towards Scully. Her finger managed to snap the selector switch over the trigger, and a rolling burst from her weapon battered the monstrosity from the air.

The body slammed against a wall, eating through quickly. But several droplets of its yellow ichor fell upon Soun's leg, quickly sizzling through his jeans. He groaned tightly as his leg folded underneath him, dropping him next to the open door.

The unlatched metal hatch swung open, revealing a dark, glistening form in the empty portal. Light from the broken porthole glinted off its smooth carapace as it crouched low over the felled SEAL. Dana brought her muzzle to bear on the fiendish apparition, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. A quick glance at her carbine confirmed the obvious; she was out of ammunition.

As one of the thing's bony claws reached out for Soun, a flash of muzzle-fire licked out to blast the figure backwards. The walls of the room shielded Soun from its blood as Quiddis lowered his weapon and ran forward to gather Soun into his arms.

"You still with us?" Quiddis never looked down, his rifle pointed out the doorway.

"Yeah. Keep moving," was all he could squeeze out between gritted teeth.

Agent Scully picked herself up off the floor. Letting her rifle clatter impotently to the floor, she retrieved Soun's weapon, and checked the clip. Not a pretty sight, but better off than she'd been a moment before. Probably the same could be said of Soun.

Quiddis gestured his men forward with his rifle, and PO Meyer started forward with Paddy. Meyer caught her eye on the way out, his mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line. Quiddis dragged the Chief afterward, Soun's arm thrown across the Lieutenant's shoulders. Dana looked around for Whitman, motioning for him to go next.

Then she remembered the screaming. Whitman wasn't leaving the rig.

Fox figured out immediately that there would be no search party. There was no way Quiddis would use his dwindling resources to come after one man who may or may not be dead. He'd stay holed up and wait for the chopper. Hopefully, Soun would manage to sit on Dana, and let Mulder fight this one on his own. If he was to climb out of this wrecked level, it would be alone.

He had to find a way up, a route back to the SEAL team and Scully. The elevators were dead without power, and the stairwell was settling into the mud on the seafloor by now. His battered mind vaguely recalled the layout of the rig from his cursory examination of the map. Those precious few seconds back aboard the _Elliot_ seemed a lifetime away.

Trying to ignore the pain that wrenched his every breath into a shallow gasp, Agent Mulder tried to think of a way up this pylon besides the ladder. There were airducts, but even if he could somehow manage to climb them in his condition, there were doubtlessly any number of horrors shuttling along inside them. Fox simply couldn't remember the map at all; he'd been too busy sniping at Scully to concentrate on business at hand.

Last time that ever happens, he thought. One way or another.

Fox leaned his intact left side against one of the filthy countertops, and let his breath whistle between his teeth. Once, he'd have been through this all on his own, and he'd never have thought twice about it. Now he found himself relying on Dana more and more, and she had come through time and again for him. There was a certain poetic justice, he reflected, in trapping myself here because I turned my back on my . . . partner.

He blinked. An image of Dana formed in his head, dressed in the outsized overalls and workshirt she was in now, her gorgeous copper hair over one blue eye as she faced him in the bedroom. His back had still been warm from where she'd pressed against him, touched him. And she'd asked about a catwalk.

Mulder smiled easily. She'd run into Glad and Quiddis on a catwalk between the two pylons, and had wondered why they were there. He had to admit, Glad's motive was pretty damn irrelevant now, but that crucial bit of information was vital. It was Mulder's escape route. He and Quiddis had only been on this floor, the lowest floor, when they ran for their escape. That meant that the loading bay was on this level. If he made it there, he could take that cargo elevator up to floor three of the other pylon, the one they had run from. Then it was simply a matter of crossing that catwalk Scully had mentioned, and rejoining her and the team in their little shelter.

In a burst of high spirits, necessary to stave off the grinding in his shoulder, Fox nearly jogged out of the compartment. He swung the sealed hatch shut behind him and headed left, trusting his memory to guide him back to that rancid hold.

Had he stayed seconds longer, he would have heard the dull echoes of Dana's fire fight two floors above.

The rusted bulk of the exterior hatch slammed against the outside wall of Pylon Three like a gong. Storm winds were dying down now as night fell quickly over the ocean, but enough power was left in the sky to blow stray water droplets into Glad's face as he stepped out onto one of the rig's gantries. He was cold, tired and alone, and half his precious cargo had not survived the fire and flood. He didn't care any more.

Glad, also known as Colonel White, ran across the gangplank at breakneck speed, hoping no creatures were around to stop him. Below him, he could see the maimed remains of the hatch he'd destroyed yesterday, the walkway he'd very nearly hurled the lieutenant and special agent over. Now he had to make his way down there again, and again try to reach the hold.

Glad threw himself at the hatch with a fervor, sweat deforming his face as he stressed his wounded shoulder. Opening it, he let it bounce wide open as he ran into the side access tunnel. Somewhere nearby was a cramped ladder heading down. All he had to do was find it.

Pulling aside a wet and burned sleeve revealed Glad's scarred stainless steel watch. He'd pulled it from a dead officer's hand, and had worn it every day of the last ten years. It still worked, even after all the trials he'd been through. According to the softly moving hands underneath its metal shield, he was running out of time.

Scully watched the four men ahead of her run through the dank hallways of the battered rig. Frigid air formed great puffs of white from their breath, and Dana felt her own breathing fall into time with their syncopated footsteps. Somehow, Quiddis managed to keep the rifle steady in his left hand while he supported Soun with his right. And more frightening was the way the Chief clenched his lieutenant's pistol in one white-knuckled fist. She couldn't see their faces, but she could imagine the grim, bloody determination set there.

Small fragments bounced across the hallway as the four screw heads on a panel overhead were torn from their threads. The venting shaft exploded downwards as a writhing mass of limbs and tail descended between Dana and the rest of the party. If she fired, she'd sign the death certificates for the SEAL team.

Agent Scully threw herself to one side, careening through an open doorway and into a wooden desk. She tried to spin about, but the flash suppressor on her rifle caught on the desk leg. She was certain the alien must be silently bearing down on her from behind, and closed her eyes. But instead of a low hiss, she heard the contained roar of an assault rifle.

Dana managed to get to her feet, blood from a cut on her head trickling into one pale eyebrow. The creature's corpse had already disappeared into a smoking hole in the deckplates, leaving rank metallic smoke in the air.

Meyer's thin, smoke stained face peered around the doorjamb at Scully. "C'mon, we gotta book!"

Scully could almost hear the word 'babe' appended to his words. She had a sudden feeling she knew from where the Navy had recruited him. Instead of sighing as she wanted to, she ended up hanging from his arm as she navigated the smoking crater left by the creature's death. It was a harrowing leap over the pit, but she was done shortly, and running down the corridor to help Paddy to his feet.

She needed the motion, wanted the rush of blood and fear in her chest. As long as survival was paramount, she could dismiss the image of Mulder tumbling down that shaft. All alone in the night.

The loading dock and moon pool were only a few feet ahead of Mulder when he slowed down, out of breath. The pain in his collar was getting worse, and he could no longer even make a pretense of moving his right arm. But what stopped him was the foreknowledge of where he was heading.

The empty storage bay ahead was tantamount to the center of the alien hive. It was a combination egg chamber and birthing lair. And with the need for new members as acute as it was now, Mulder knew he would have been better off walking into the dragon's den. But there was no other way available for him to return to the team and Scully.

Fox refused to enter that room empty-handed, and started searching through the dark chambers nearby. Uniformly, they seemed to be storage closets and repair shops. Mulder grinned, his hazel eyes dancing with pure malice in the dark.

For twenty years, he'd lain awake at night, never able to sleep. For most of those dark hours, Mulder had stared blankly at the flicker of a television screen. Sometimes, he had wandered in and out of half empty movie houses, his chiseled profile blank as he watched the midnight matinees. Later, those same worthless second rate horror films would pass bluely before him when he lay on his patched couch in the apartment. After several years, he'd learned all the familiar, worn plot devices well.

He'd learned better than the film makers or script writers ever had. Because he'd had years working in Violent Crimes, and years profiling madmen in Behavioral. He'd learned new and exciting means of murder that even Hollywood hadn't the temerity to broadcast in Dolby Surround Sound.

And so he opened the doors on the work room grinning. Because despite the bone chilling cold, and the pain that ran like lead through his side, he had a chance here.

The gantry bounced and clanged under the SEALs boots as they boiled out of the rig pylon and into the chill salty air. Meyer and Quiddis had to turn sideways as they ran in order to fit Paddy and Soun onto the narrow planking. The faint rain slicked the cold metal railings, and dulled vision in the twilight just enough to be a distraction. It was not something they needed.

Dana stayed behind, silhouetted in the doorway they'd just left. The dim gray light of fleeing day cast her shadow out long before her, blanketing the shattered hallway with darkness. The darkness disappeared in a wash of yellow as her rifle kicked out another three rounds. In the silence following the gunfire, Scully could hear the brass shell casings rattle about the metal floor underfoot.

There was no more sign of their pursuers. Dana skittered backwards through the portal, and shuffled blindly across the gantry. She didn't dare remove a hand from her CAR-15 long enough to take hold of the railing. And there was no chance she'd turn her back on that gaping doorway.

If only Glad hadn't blown the door off, she thought, I could at least close the damn thing. The cold air burned her nose, but she was still burning up inside her thick overalls from exertion. Her shoulders hurt as she shifted, trying to scratch away the beads of sweat trickling down to the small of her back.

Dana looked up. Another gantry a level above criss-crossed between the other two pylons. And the door to one had been left open. The dark interior stood out against the pale glow of the rig wall, and it called out to her.

These creatures didn't seem to use doorways, and that door had been closed the last time Scully had passed this way. Which meant that someone had passed through here since then. Mulder might still be alive!

Dana turned to yell out to her companions.

With a sudden hiss, dark hands reached out through the swirling mist for her. Gasping in sudden fear, she thrust the blunt weapon forward and triggered another burst. This one fell short by one round, locking open upon an empty clip.

But the two shots she did squeeze off shattered the beast's ghastly carapace, and drove it shaking to the bottom of the gantry.

It twitched briefly before its blood disintegrated the metal beneath it, letting it fall screaming like a gryphon into the sea.

Scully was happy for a moment, blinking with relief. Then the walkway groaned, and buckled. Dana grabbed hold of one of the chain railings before the far end of the catwalk snapped free from the pylon, and dropped toward the water with the boom of sheared metal.

Dana felt as though her arm would be pulled from its socket, and she was vaguely aware of the plastic and metal rifle clattering away from her. The world pivoted sharply about her, and she screamed.

Somehow, she found herself dangling from the middle of the broken catwalk. Some ten feet above her, the one connected end of the shattered bridge terminated at the door to the pylon. And Quiddis was hanging halfway out the portal, holding out his hand to Agent Scully.

Dana tried to block out the hammering of her heart in her chest, or the tight pain in her arms that told her she'd sprained muscles she'd never really thought about. Instead, she tried to remember her training at the FBI Academy in Quantico. She'd hated climbing ropes then, and climbing a chain here didn't seem like much improvement to her, as the links started biting savagely into her hands.

Dr. Scully began pulling herself up, one arm at a time. Pull, pause. Then wrap her booted feet about the chain beneath her, and use them to lever herself upward another six inches. Before she'd reached Quiddis' hand, she was panting, and her hands were slippery with the strain.

"Go on. I'll follow you." Scully would have waved the SEAL away, but she didn't think she could let go of the burning cold chain.

"Like hell!" Quiddis slithered forward, until he was dangling out the doorway well past his hips. Dana looked at him dumbly, too tired to do more than wonder how in the hell he could support himself like that.

The Lieutenant took a deep breath before stretching out one hand as far as it would go, his stiff and straining fingers grazing the rusted chain inches above hers. He could see the red and white of her clenched fingers, and worried that she'd slip before she reached his hand.

Scully was worried about just the same thing, and the cold rain numbed her hands effectively enough that she knew she couldn't hold on indefinitely. Dana pulled herself up the chain slowly, her face burning red as she clenched her muscles too tightly to even breathe. Soon her eyes were burning, and she had to squint them shut as she dragged herself upward, trying to block out the tears. She thought her head was about to explode when a chill hand closed about her wrist.

Snapping open her eyes with a sudden gasp of fear, Dana very nearly let go of the chain altogether. As was, the hand holding her forearm in an iron grip was supporting most of her weight. For an instant, Scully was certain that one of her adversaries had a hold on her. Then her eyes cleared as cold air rushed into her lungs, and she could see the Lieutenant turning red from the strain of holding her, one handed.

His long frame was bent over the door sill, stretched as far as it would go. And only one hand could reach her; he couldn't bring the other shoulder far enough down to grab Dana securely. And while he couldn't pull her up to him, Dana knew she hadn't the strength to climb up his length either.

Her wet wrist started to slide out of Quiddis' grasp, and his fingers crackled down about her like steel in a losing war to keep hold of her. All he could see were her eyes, the same deep blue as the tossing waves beneath her. Somewhere in the distance, both heard the pulse of gunfire against the beating of their hearts.

"Oh Jesus, we're going to fall." Dana kicked furtively at the gangplank beneath her, scrabbling for a toehold that wasn't there.

Then both Quiddis and Dana began sliding into the doorway, an inch at a time. Scully felt the bones in her hand shifting as the lieutenant fought to hold on, his teeth bared in a feral grimace. And up they went, racing against his weakening grip for the doorway only a yard from Dana's grasp.

The lieutenant's bare stomach scraped across the door sill, and he found the purchase to grab her wrist in both his hands. Flexing mightily, he managed to lift her upwards toward him. Rain and sweat ran through his dark hair and dropped onto her upturned face as she was slowly drawn toward him.

Then she was close enough, and grabbed hold of his arm with her free hand. Straining, she managed to climb across his back, clutching the waist of his workpants as she pulled herself into the rig. Dana crawled inside, and let herself remain panting on the deck for a moment, eyes closed. Then the blackness behind her lids shook her, and she snapped her eyes open in time to see Quiddis pull himself inside as well.

It had been Soun, holding his Lieutenant by the legs, lowering him down to Scully. His one good leg was braced against the doorway, and his broad face was white and covered with a sheen of sweat. This had drained a lot of whatever reserve of strength he'd been running on. Standing over her, Meyer was reloading one of the rifles, and from the spent brass cooking underneath her and the sharp smell of cordite in the hall, he'd been the one firing just a moment before.

Scully snapped her gaze about the deserted hallway for a moment, taking in the etched pits in the walls and floor, and the fractured metal paneling. "Where's Paddy?"

One look at the pain burned into Meyer's young face confirmed Scully's worst fears. "Damn." For a moment the four were silent, watching one another. Then Quiddis drew himself up, and pulled the Chief up with him

"Okay people, we move. Meyer," his rough tone softened on the man's name, "how many clips?"

Meyer didn't look up from his rifle. "Two. Half empty."

"Quiddis looked nonplused. "No problem. Dana, hand me your pistol. You and Meyer get the big guns. I'll just carry this mutt."

Soun wheezed as he spoke. "This mutt'll kick your ass back on the _Elliot_."

"Uh-huh. Just start walkin'."

The second ladder was slick, and nearly tumbled Glad as he slid down one handed. But he made it to the bottom, and crouched in the low access way next to one of the water mains. His head was spinning from the blood loss, and he figured he had only a few minutes left before he lost it altogether. Less, once he hit the water.

Glad took hold of the large valve wheel on the main, and braced himself while he kicked out the access panel next to him. A few straight kicks, and it snapped away, clattering to the deck below. Moments later, Glad followed, dropping into a crouch on the deck.

He mentally reviewed his plan in his mind, piecing together all the steps before he launched himself down the hall. Speed was his best defense, and he had every intention of using it.

In the blue darkness of the hold, the machine shop door swung open half way, and Agent Mulder slid into the hall soundlessly. He was moving as slowly as he could, for he knew that stealth outweighed speed for now. Besides which, the battered toolbox slung over his creaking left shoulder slowed him tremendously. Even the pockets of his shirt and pants bulged with his accumulated goods. Fox sweated with the effort it took to carry such heavy weights, and the pain in his side grew worse with each step.

But if he was right, he wouldn't need it many more steps.

Ahead was the battered hatch he and Quiddis had fought to close. It was no longer latched shut, but was instead hanging askew by one remaining hinge. The lights in the main bay were still off, but the dim twilight pouring through the open bay doors allowed Mulder to see the outlines of the boxes and eggs scattered about the bay floor. Fox squinted against the light, fighting to peer more deeply into the loading platform's cavernous interior.

He stepped inside, glancing quickly along the walls and ceiling for the nesting places of these things. He couldn't see any, but Fox didn't let that fool him into believing that none were present. Just because he couldn't see the danger did not mean that it wasn't there.

Fox threaded his way between the boxes and the empty eggs, casting furtive glances at the elevator along the wall. It still remained parked at a higher level, and Mulder swore silently. He would have to wait for it to descend to pick him up, and he had no illusions about the risks involved in his mere presence down here below decks.

Mulder slipped around a large wooden crate, and froze when he saw the beast. It froze too, hunched over the large leathery egg it cradled against its slick exoskeleton. Man and alien stood separated by less than ten feet, each clutching furtively at their respective packages.

The thing was smaller than those Mulder had seen before, and its long curved skull was not crenelated with obscure bony protrusions. Instead, it was slick and clean, darkening into black from the dead white near its fanged mouth. Mulder didn't know if that meant it might be some form of worker, or a juvenile, or if this was simple sexual dimorphism.

He almost found it funny that he considered all this as he worked the small lever on the box he carried. A few more quick pumps, and he figured he'd have enough of a charge to start it up.

Much to his surprise, the alien set down the egg, and backed away slowly. It moved on all fours, and its tail wove a slow pattern like that of a cat's. Fox couldn't understand why it had suddenly dropped its precious cargo. Then the egg split open into four hemispheres, blossoming in the dark like some rotted flower.

Inside, something moved. A shape twitched briefly, and several legs appeared over the lip of the egg. Mulder then understood. Like the corpses surrounding him, this creature wanted him to witness first hand how it reproduced. It wanted to kill him, and use him.

He flicked the power switch on the box, and the compressor motor started with a shrieking whir. The little engine rumbled roughly under the compressor's whine, and the alien before him echoed the screech in double voiced counterpoint.

The little obscenity arose from the egg, and perched briefly upon one of the petals. It bore a striking resemblance to a severed human hand, down to the pasty flesh of a cadaver. But it possessed far too many fingers, and where a wrist should have been, a powerful tail coiled and uncoiled.

Mulder lifted the tool from the box, and balanced it awkwardly in his left hand. The thing moved as he did, and Fox used the compressed air gun to blast rivets into the squirming thing just as fast as it could fire them. The red hot little nails hissed as they pinned the twitching shape to its birth-egg, and its caustic blood carved wild patterns into the floor beneath it.

The alien that had carried the egg flicked its tail, and cast its head back in apoplectic fury. It shrieked in concert with itself, and pounced at the Federal Agent. Mulder dropped to the floor, and the thing landed behind him, its powerful right hand crashing through the wooden box behind him.

Fox didn't waste time rising to his feet. He simply fired his small rivet gun into the alien's hips and the base of its tail. The monster cried out as its legs were cut out from beneath it. Only its powerful claw held it upright, as it sagged against the wooden crate it had so recently torn asunder.

Not hesitating, Mulder fired again and again. He drove burning steel into the base of its neck, its back, its head. He fired until the ghastly obscenity stopped flailing about, and the shrieking had subsided to dull moans.

Then he spun about, looking above him. Somewhere, he thought, somewhere more of these things are waiting for me. But I'm going to prove one damn thing to these aliens; humans can kill far better than they can.

Fox spun about again before he saw a subtle movement in one corner. He squeezed the trigger on the rivet gun, his left hand launching another glowing fleck into the darkness.

An olive green navy Blackhawk was already circling the landing platform high above when the four people left in the team staggered out onto the wide open space. Quiddis popped a flare free from his clothes, and tossed it off to one side where it burned with an eerie green light.

The helicopter dove steeply toward the landing platform, and pulled up hard to land. Its huge wheels slammed into the metal deck hard enough to ring the structure, and its hydraulics bounced as it slammed down. The wind from its rotors nearly flattened the four struggling people. Dana fought as hair and debris blew in her eyes.

Men strapped into the open doorways of the helicopter pivoted ungainly guns about, and shattered all the nearby structures with rolling bursts of gunfire. The pilot lit up his craft with running lights and spotlight, picking out all the dark corners of the hanger for his gunners. The three men methodically poured a hail of tracers into every corner and grating, firing all about the huddled SEALs.

Shortly, the barrage ebbed, and Quiddis looked into the heart of the maelstrom to see the door gunner unstrap himself and gesture the four people forward. He grabbed Soun and ran, pulling Meyer and Dana with him. It wasn't until Dana's back was pressed up against the warm side of the helicopter that she felt this was real.

The gunner wore a bulbous helmet, and with the silvered blast shield down, he looked as insectile as his helicopter. He hunched over to help Soun and Meyer aboard, while the other two gunners sporadically fired into the rubble about the chopper.

"Wait!" Scully shouted into Quiddis' ear. "I saw a door! On the rig!"

"What?"

"It's Mulder! He's alive!" Dana pulled the pistol out of the lieutenant's pocket, jamming it into her belt again.

"I believe you! But we gotta go! Now!" Quiddis cupped his hands about his mouth to be heard over the roar of the twin turbines.

"No! Not without Fox!" Dana stepped away from the helicopter.

Quiddis moved to grab her, but Dana saw the telltale flicker of movement. She danced backward, swinging her rifle in line with the black shape crawling underneath the helicopter, dragging itself from a broken hatch in the deck.

The door gunner only saw her wild expression, her red hair wreathing her face in flames as she drew a bead on his only ride home. Trained to within an inch of his life, the terrified man slew his oversized pintle-mounted weapon to bear at the incredibly close range.

Quiddis had seen the horrors of blue on blue fire from the last rounds of desert fighting, and threw himself on the barrel of the chopper's gun. He couldn't pin down why, but he trusted Scully's instincts.

The machinegunner fired anyway, pushing Quiddis to one side. The shots bounced and kicked off the metal decking at the lieutenant's feet, and he doubled over quickly. Scully fired under the chopper, ducking to one side of the door gunner's arc of fire.

But her target was gone, the black shape of the hole in the ground its only trace. The doorgunner's volley of fire stopped abruptly, giving Dana and Quiddis the chance to raise their heads. The gunner was slumped over his weapon, still strapped to the door. But from the cracked stock of Meyer's rifle and the dent in the man's helmet, it was fairly certain what knocked him out.

Dr. Scully rushed over to Quiddis, who still hadn't risen. His ankles and shins were flecked with blood, and the canvas pants he'd worn lay in stained tatters. The shells the gunner had fired had shattered on the ground, and their broken, spinning fragments had carved thin lines through the man's legs.

"Medic!" Scully tore through the pants examining the cuts. "Get him into the chopper now!"

She was shocked when Meyer ran over to lift Quiddis into the chopper. She carried his legs as they slid him into the chopper next to the unconscious gunner. "The corpsman?"

Meyer shook his head in the rush of air from the helicopter's blades. "None!"

"Take care of Quiddis. I'll be back in ten!" Dana held up her hands, pantomiming to Meyer as she stripped his rifle of its clip.

"Wait! You can't go back!" Meyer was yelling, but didn't stop her as she gathered a satchel and items from the cramped helicopter. A stowage compartment revealed two full clips, and she stuffed both into her oversized jumper.

"Wait for us." Dana grabbed Soun's arm, and caught his bleary dark eyes with hers.

"We ain't going anywhere." He nearly pushed her out the door, his words of encouragement almost blotted out by the scouring wind and roar of the chopper.

Dana ran for the stairwell, intent upon her one goal remaining. She was nearly there when the gunfire started again. The Lieutenant's rifle in hand, Scully wheeled about to see the door gunner awake and sweeping his gun about. As his barrels came in line with her, he opened fire. Dana dropped to the deck in a huddle as hundreds of rounds hammered into the ground behind her.

Vaguely, she heard a single scream. Then the torrent of fire stopped, and she looked around. Behind her, the dismembered remains of the sole alien were burning their way through the deck. Agent Scully watched a single outstretched claw vanish in the heavy smoke, and then pushed herself to her feet.

Her hands were raw and burning, and she hurt everywhere possible. But her partner was just four floors away.

The rivet gun snapped and hissed blindly in Mulder's hand. He held it up before his gleaming eyes in the darkness, and depressed the scratched and pitted trigger again. No glowing rivet emerged. Fox checked the hopper, and found it empty. He was almost glad to discard the heavy weight of the gun and compressor, save for the loss of such an effective weapon.

He snapped the compressor off, and its chuffling little motor died with a wheeze. The box thudded dully to the floor as Mulder used his awkward left hand to draw a cylinder from his pocket. Twisting the valve on the L-shaped tube protruding from it, Fox was rewarded by the smell of gas. Pinning the cylinder under his arm, he pulled a small zippo from his pocket, and lit the acetylene torch.

The steady stream of gas ignited with a hiss, and its blue flame bathed Mulder's little world in cold fire. His breathing was shaky now; even were he not pyrophobic, his next moves would scare anyone still sane. But Agent Mulder needed something to keep these creatures at bay, and Fox had seen more than a few effective ways of accomplishing just that.

Working quickly, he pinned the little torch against his chest with his right arm. The broken bones in his collar ground and burned in protest, but Fox bit back his cries. Instead he pulled a bottle out of his left pocket and upended it, letting the kerosene inside soak the oil rag he'd stuffed into the mouth. Then he set off toward the elevator, holding the Molotov cocktail near the fire of his torch.

Mulder heard a faint hissing behind him, and he spun, lighting the bottle. The rag seemed to roar as bright yellow light wrapped itself about the stained cloth. In the brilliant light of the snapping kerosene, Agent Mulder saw a dark form charging him, bounding across the tops of the crates. Fox's hand shook as he pitched the bottle at the nearest crate just as the alien leapt for it.

The bottle shattered, and liquid fire leapt across the crates, the roaring now more insistent. Both alien and crate tumbled to the ground. The thing's tail whipped about as it flailed and cried out from the inferno that had become its funeral pyre. For a moment, it stumbled toward Mulder, and the special agent fell to the ground, scrambling backward through the muck and blood. It seemed he couldn't move fast enough to escape what appeared to be a flickering creature of living flame. It leapt for him, only to fall short by inches as its wailing died away.

Fox slapped at the smoldering hem of his pants, shivering despite the heat. The crates scattered about the loading bay fairly exploded into flames, sending billows of dense black smoke into the mass of bodies along the roof of the cavernous hold. It was a blood lit scene fit for Dante, painted by Goya. Mulder's hand found the hot bulk of his torch and he gathered it to himself as he stood. Tucking it again under his injured arm, Fox shook as he watched the fire gather upon itself.

He managed to shy away from the spreading flames, and work free a second bottle. He ran to the elevator, and slapped the call button repeatedly. "Come on! Come on!"

The hot air burned his throat, and he began to wonder if dying by fire would be any better than letting those creatures get to him. He was slumped against the wall when he spotted one of the aliens sidling along one panel.

Trapped in its crushing embrace, it held Paddy tight against its slick and bony chest. The SEAL struggled and fought, but couldn't free himself.

Mulder looked down at the bottle in his hand, and then over at the two struggling figures. He knew it had to be heading for the eggs. Fox bit his lip for a moment, and looked up at the slowly descending elevator. The terrible fire reflected in his stormy eyes for a moment, and he thought of his partner, waiting for him above.

He blinked, and divested himself of torch and bottle, leaving both next to the elevator platform. Mulder searched his bulging pockets for the right tools he'd hidden there.

Clutching them in his good hand, Fox ran as fast as he could toward the receding alien, slick and cold with the fear of the fire he'd started. He wished that amongst all his beliefs, there was a god he could pray to.

The gangplank bounced as Agent Scully ran out onto it. Ahead of her was the doorway toward the pylon, but she was stuck. Did Mulder head back for the room the team had fled, or would he now be following their path back to the chopper? She thought for a moment. Knowing him, he'd have abandoned all sane goals, and be trudging through the deepest, darkest pit he could find.

The thought brought a much needed smile to her face, and she hefted her rifle. Her best bet was to simply follow every open doorway down, and see if a pattern developed. It wasn't clever, but it was good detective work.

Dana was about to leave the gantry when the Blackhawk circled about her. She threw a hand over her eyes, shielding them from the vortexes it generated as it hovered to one side. Through its open side doors, she could see Meyer waving to her, and she wrinkled her brow. She couldn't imagine what he thought he was doing, gesticulating wildly.

Then she realized. He was pointing down, toward the base where the pylons crashed into the ocean waves. The helicopter swung its powerful spotlight onto the water there, and Scully's breath caught in her throat.

Oh God, don't let his body be down there, her mind cried. Instead, she saw thick black smoke boiling out of the open bay doors at the base of the pylon. For a moment she was confused; what did that mean? Then she remembered that this was the way he and Quiddis had escaped to the surface before.

But the smoke still scared her. It meant that Fox was down there with two nightmares. The aliens, and the fire that petrified him.

Scully leapt through the doorway, out of the cold night and into the oily depth of the rig. Silently, she dared anything to stop her.

Mulder slunk along one side of the bay, shadowing the beast that held Paddy in its iron claws. It moved slowly, cautiously away from the fire, into the depth of the shadows at the far end of the hanger.

Fox came about one of the boxes, and saw the thing pressing a struggling shape against the ground, holding him pinned before a dark egg. Delicate, clawed hands molded resins tight about the struggling soldier, binding him to the floor. It hissed softly, and stretched more rank plastics about Paddy, gluing him to the hold floor. As Mulder moved into position, he turned so that the fire illuminated the nightmare scene, casting flickering lights over his shoulder. The notion of turning his back on the fire made Mulder's balls shrink up and his skin crawl, but he had no choice as he stepped out of cover to circle the alien.

He had to move into place, so the creature was not between him and Paddy. If it were, then its vile blood would spray the helpless man and surely kill him.

Almost, almost he was there. But his foot caught on a slippery rope, dropping him to his knees in a morass of stinking goo. He clawed to his feet as the alien turned on him, enraged. Fox was determined not to look at the noxious mass he'd slipped in, but instead set the CO2 cartridge into the steel pipe.

The alien stopped its work and moved in on Mulder. Don't look up, he thought, just fit the rod in over the cartridge. The scratch of claws on the deck, and the heat of the fire at his back nearly drove him mad, but he arranged the spike and hammer as best he could.

Fox looked up, and saw the thing only feet away. Gasping, he tumbled backward, and drove the hammer into the spike. The spike shattered the compressed air cartridge, and blasted the steel tube out and into the chest of the onrushing beast. It dropped to the floor cackling and spitting, clutching the shattered exoskeleton over its inhuman heart.

Mulder pushed himself to his feet, as did the wraith-like alien warrior. Fox wiped a trace of blood from his mouth, and watched the slime drip from the alien. Its cracked chestplate dripped acid onto the gore-encrusted floor, and its spiked tail quivered over one narrow shoulder. One hand was pressed tight over the wound, in gruesome imitation of Fox's own wounded hand.

Mulder reached into his shirt pocket, and withdrew his little Zippo lighter. He was taking an awful risk, but he couldn't think of any other option. He carried a little metal awl in another pocket, and its carbide tip was diamond studded. But using it would mean diving inside the monster's reach. It meant facing that terrible acidic blood, and near certain death. Instead, Fox lit the Zippo with his left hand, and resolved to play mindgames with a demon.

Agent Mulder spun the little dial under the Zippo's flame guard, letting its fire rise six inches into the air. Then he waved the little lighter at the creature, trying to mimic the movements of his Molotov Cocktails.

The thing hunched backwards, shying away from both the roaring inferno and Mulder's puny flames. Mulder grinned ferally even as his short bangs were plastered against his head by the heat. None of the creatures that faced the SEALs had survived. Yet somehow, the remainder learned to fear the guns. Looking at Paddy, Mulder realized that they had instead learned to attack the weakest, unarmed people.

If they learned fear, and did so without speech, they might instead react to the fear and pain transmitted telepathically. This would explain their elegantly timed attacks. It was a wild leap of deduction on his part, but it was perhaps possible. And if so, he was betting that this thing would remain at bay, fearing that he could burn more of them. It all hinged upon the premise that these aliens were smart enough to recognize weapons without actually understanding them.

Suddenly, the tight fear in Fox's chest cut loose, and he found himself stalking the wounded warrior, circling inward toward where Paddy lay on the floor. The warrior hissed and spit, its twin jaws snapping furiously. But each time it feinted in, Mulder waved the flame, and it withdrew. Somewhere inside Agent Mulder, a deep and ancient part of him loved the deadly game, the dance. He saw the tendons shift in the creature's legs, watched the rolling orange flames flicker and play off its slick black armor. He liked it.

Then Fox noticed the grotesque's outstretched hands. One hand was missing several of its elongate digits. And its head was scarred, as if by a bullet. Mulder thought quickly; there was a definite chance that Mulder had saved Quiddis from this very alien. The thought that this was a second encounter made him grin; so much the better.

Mulder moved alongside Paddy, and found him glued face up to the floor with strands of resin. As much as he struggled, the soldier couldn't move.

"On my belt. The service pistol." Paddy jerked his head at the small black leather holster, hooked securely to his belt, out of reach of his pinned arm.

Mulder licked his lips, nervously shifting the Zippo to his right hand. He could barely close his swollen and aching fingers

about the small chrome casing. Whatever infection was burning its way through him, it had already seriously compromised his hand for certain.

He crouched low, tentatively reaching for the big .45 caliber Paddy wore. It took time for him to work it free, and leaning over was twisting his broken shoulder horribly. It took all his concentration not to throw up at the building pain. Frustrated and desperate, Mulder yanked viciously at the gun, tearing it out of the holster. In the process, he fell over backwards, jarring the small lighter out of his weakened hand.

With an almost human glee in its metallic cry, the alien swarmed forward, capitalizing upon the situation. It moved on three limbs, one hand clutching its shattered chest as it bounded at the felled Agent.

Mulder fumbled with the gun two handed; the older weapon didn't have a safety for use with the left hand. He struggled, snapping the safety off one handed. Then he grunted, using his stiff right hand to force the slide back, and fire. No aiming now, just pulling the trigger again and again and again.

After five or six rounds, Fox realized that no sharp claws had grabbed him. He looked ahead, and saw the crumpled dark shape flickering in the roaring reddish-orange firelight. It breathed still, deep rumbles that shook its lanky frame. Small dribbles of green blood slipped from the bullet hole in its shattered chest, burning holes in the steel beneath it.

Both man and alien pushed themselves to their feet, wobbling unsteadily. Mulder tried to brace his weakening left hand with his right, but could no longer even bring his wounded arm up to chest height. His shoulder wouldn't move for all the pain he felt, and his hand was entirely numb.

His opponent looked no better; the creature's arm hung limply at its side, and the wound in its chest was flowing freely over its cracked exoskeleton. Nonetheless it crouched into a fighting posture, hissing in pain and anger. The barbed tail still moved threateningly over its head, weaving back and forth hypnotically.

The two figures, human and alien, faced off amidst the burning boxes and across the prone form of the SEAL. The roaring fire assaulted Fox's ears, and drove all sound and thought from the room. Amidst the heat and sharp glow, Mulder watched the thing gather itself for a renewed assault. Mulder fired as the alien leapt. He was shocked to realize that the creature had not leapt at him, but to one side. It landed hard, the broken armor crunching painfully with each step. But it was anticipating him, evading him.

Mulder fired again and again, his weakening left hand wobbling erratically. But try as he might, Fox couldn't get a clear shot. The air wavered with the heat, and darkened with smoke. In a minute, the hot smoke would descend to head level, choking and blinding Fox. Worse, he felt the shaking and chills of infection, and his hand weakened by the second. If he didn't win this fight soon, he would never win it at all.

Sweat running down his face, Fox decided that it was time the tables were turned. He sucked in a deep breath, and charged the alien. If he were close enough, he couldn't possibly miss. And what would be less expected, he wondered.

The alien drove forward to meet him, its one working arm outstretched like some twisted pike. Neither figure showed signs of stopping their suicidal plunge at one another, both screaming with rage. Fox fired sharply as he ran, tucking his head along side his faltering gun arm. The huge soft-nosed rounds snapped the glistening creature's charge, driving it to its knees. The impacts shattered the cracked exoskeleton over the thing's still beating heart, and a spray of its fatal blood nearly hit Mulder as he stopped short.

Panting from the effort, Fox brought the pistol into line with the alien, and backed away. It looked up at him briefly, and he shot it through the chest. It crumpled, and lay still on the floor. Mulder looked down at the .45, its slide locked back into the empty receiver. With a sigh, he dropped it on the blood-soaked deck, and turned to free Paddy.

The sticky resin that pinned Paddy to the floor had hardened into strands of darkening plastic, nearly impossible to snap. Fox had to beat at each strand repeatedly in an attempt to break them one by one. But the fire was closing in, and Mulder was frantic as he pummeled the tough, sticky cables.

He spun at some half recognized sound, barely audible over the crackle and snap of the flames. He saw a figure step off the elevator, and jog nearer.

"Scully?" Through the heat and the light, Fox couldn't see clearly. It occurred to him that even without the raging fire, he probably wouldn't be able to see any clearer.

"Agent Mulder. This is a surprise." Mulder's head drooped momentarily onto his heaving chest, but he brought his gaze back up in challenge as Sergeant Glad stepped closer.

Glad was soiled and torn, blackened from the muck he'd waded through. A puckered cut across his face had swollen one eye shut. Mulder was shocked; he thought no one could be worse off than he was.

"I figured you'd be cold and gray by now, Mulder."

Mulder kept his eyes on Glad's hands; he was holding Fox's last Molotov cocktail, and the acetylene torch. "You don't look too good either."

"Well," Glad smiled as he looked at the conflagration climbing the east wall of the warehouse as his growling voice rose again. "I think I have you and your 'team' to thank for that, now don't I?."

Mulder tried to push himself up from his knees and failed. Instead, he pinned Glad with a withering stare as his mobile features contorted into pure hatred. The red glow of the fire painted him a devil. "You knew what was here all along, didn't you? You just gave everyone here up."

"We always know. As for your little team . . . Everyone gets expended sooner or later. And we've got more people than you do."

Paddy shook, fighting to free himself from the floor. "You bastard. Get me up. I'll fuckin' cook you!"

"Sorry to upset you. But I do like the idea." Glad smiled as he used the torch to light the greasy rag stoppering the bottle. He pulled back his arm to throw when a sharp crack rang out through the fire. The bottle slipped from nerveless fingers to shatter across the floor at Glad's feet.

Glad clutched at the spreading stain over his shoulder, then staggered backwards as the flames wreathing him reached up and along his legs. Soundlessly, he stumbled away into the descending smoke as a second rifle shot snapped out into the bay.

Mulder was coughing, trying unsuccessfully to pull his sweat-soaked shirt up about his face. Between that and his fight to free Paddy, he almost missed Dana's arrival.

She fell to the ground next to him, noting the fact that his right arm hung limply at his side. She used the buttstock to shatter some of the tightly bound resin surrounding the SEAL, but her eyes were on her partner.

"Nice timing Scully. You waiting for a dramatic moment?" He worked quickly on the resin, trying to hide his rising fear of fire.

"Always. Hard to get you to pay for lunch if you don't owe me."

Some of Mulder's native fear showed through the mask he wore, lighting his eyes as he looked up at his taut partner. "I'll take you out anytime. Just keep shooting the kooks off me, okay?"

They shared a nervous smile as they dragged Paddy across the floor, trailing bits of the cocoon that had entrapped him. All three had to crouch down to avoid the smoke, and Scully thought Mulder looked ready to pass out. She gnawed a lip trying to think of some way to drag them both to safety.

"Mulder! The chopper's here, and we've got six minutes to get there."

Fox returned her intense gaze. "Where?"

"On the top of the rig, but they're circling for now." She saw a gleam in his eyes, flickering in the fire-light. There was a moment's question bound up in the creasing of her forehead before comprehension struck her.

"No." Dana shook her head vehemently, the copper strands of her hair escaping their bonds to stick to her face wildly. "You try jumping in that water, you'll sink like a brick."

"You're okay, and Paddy's trained for this. I'm a good swimmer too." Fox tried using his intense voice, his eyes, every trick he could think of to sway Scully. "It's better than the fire."

Dana stammered an argument about human endurance when a heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder. Paddy spoke up from the floor. "I don't see a whole lot of options, Doc." He pointed toward the elevator Scully had descended. It was ablaze, yellow fire roaring through the lubrication. As they watched, the seals on the hydraulics gave way, plunging the platform to the bottom of the work pit.

Scully turned back to see the stark fear in Mulder's eyes, reflecting the fire surrounding him. Her heart went out to him; staying here, fighting the panic, must be the most terrifying thing imaginable.

"All right. Where's the water?" Mulder almost smiled, and motioned toward the moon pool with a fractional nod of his head. Together, the three people crawled through the smoke and fire, slipping in the blood and ooze.

Dana halted the two men with a gesture, her words useless against the roaring flames. Working quickly, she fought to untie Paddy's combat boots. First one, then the other was discarded. The heat on her back grew as she struggled with Fox's Timberland boots. Then Dr. Scully stripped herself of the armor she'd carried, and her own boots. The metal deck was hot from the fire, and the slick wetness poured through her socks.

Scully dragged Paddy to the lip of the pool, and pushed him in. He surfaced, flailing wildly. Dana leapt in after him, trying to hold him up despite the weight of her clothes. The dark, frigid water shocked her completely, and sucked the air from her. Dr. Scully fought numbed hands as she tried to dog-paddle with some success. Then she heard a splash, and Mulder quickly pressed against her. She couldn't hear him for the noise of fire and water, but she could see him shivering by firelight.

Scully dragged Mulder onto her stomach, and held onto Paddy's combat webbing with her left hand. She started kicking, pushing them out of and away from the burning rig. Repeatedly, she kicked Mulder's lanky legs or Paddy's feet. They too were thrashing, trying to get the three of them out before the whole rig collapsed.

Paddy gasped in her ear, as small water droplets flicked her face and the Gulf waters threatened to drown her. "Oil . . . in the water. If . . . the rig . . . goes up . . . it burns." Fox had seen pictures of oil rig disasters, and this scared him to death. Once a spill was lit, the rig often melted completely. A rig in the Baltic had burned so furiously that the wreckage was never recovered; it fell completely apart.

Fox pushed harder, putting renewed strength into his kicks. Despite Dana's best efforts, he kept sliding under water for progressively longer periods. They hadn't moved more than fifty yards, and already he was gasping, his limbs drifting unresponsively.

Scully figured they were clear enough of the smoke plume, and pulled her trump card. Much of what she'd carried had been lost one way or another during her wild run down the rig. But in one pocket, she found one of the magnesium flares she'd stolen from the helicopter. Snapping the plastic cap off, it ignited and cut a blinding green light into their retinas.

Now the trick was staying afloat while waving the flare overhead. The wind and chill water slapping the breath from her wasn't helping. God only knew what Mulder and Paddy were feeling.

Paddy was like a weight about her neck, and Mulder no longer held on to her. Now, he only barely managed to float on his back. Scully could only wish she were larger. She had always been buoyant, but now she needed to be tall enough to hold both sinking men.

The helicopter swung into view around the dark, burning hulk of the oil derrick. Its huge blades swept the thick petrochemical smoke into wild curves and drove it back down upon the three weary people in the water. It was choking and foul, but far better than the water.

The water itself was lifted and hurled at them by the helicopter's blades, knifing into them and blinding one and all. But the weight of the air pushing down drove them under water. Dana kicked and pushed, but couldn't hold all three above water for long.

When the mass of people resurfaced, Scully realized why they were battered so forcefully. The pilots had negotiated their huge machine down until its broad green belly was mere feet above the water. They had no diver's hook, and so Meyer was stretched out flat along the door track. One hand held onto the wheel's axle, the other trailed downward. Only Quiddis held him from inside the helicopter. The doorguards fired nervously into the firelit bay.

The right wheel wobbled and dipped into the water as the pilot tried to swing Meyer closer to the stragglers in the water. Dana pushed Paddy off and away, toward Meyer. His weight drove her under, and the burning seawater choked her as she gasped for air. But Meyer took hold of Paddy, and dragged him upward. Soun leaned out the door, and grabbed his soldier by the scruff of his shirt. Between the two, they manhandled the wayward SEAL into the chopper.

Dana's hands were full with Mulder. She'd divested herself of the heavy satchel and clips before diving into the Gulf, but she still couldn't kick hard enough to keep both Agents above water for long. Fox tried to yell to her, but the rotor wash crushed his words before they reached her ears.

Then the Blackhawk swept back in, nosing in toward the two partners still battling the waters. Dana clutched at Mulder, trying to propel him towards Meyer's waiting hand. But instead heslipped beneath her arms, using his swimmers legs to stiffly push her upwards.

Mulder yelled something at her, but was driven under as he pushed her upward. She felt an arm about her waist, pressing her toward the air. Still, he kept kicking until Meyer had a hold of her by one short arm. She was raging and yelling for them to let her go, but Meyer simply started dragging her into the helicopter.

Many hands were on her, pulling her. She was disoriented, still in shock, as one of the gunners wrapped her in a rough blanket. She shouted at Meyer, gesturing for the SEAL to grab Mulder. Nothing was forthcoming, so she dived across the pitching helicopter for the door. The door gunner pinned her arms, holding her back from the open portal. The wind cut into her, freezing her to the core. But it was nothing to the chill she felt looking at the black, frothing waters.

"Damnit! Mulder!" Dana called out, shouting into the ocean from her bucking vantage point aboard the Blackhawk. "Mulder!"

Meyer squirmed from where he lay along the door jamb, shaking off Quiddis angrily. Without further word, he leaned backwards out the door and slid into the water, leaving no splash.

The SEAL dove, kicking himself deep into the cold water. The salt water would burn his eyes, so he kept them closed. It was purely a matter of touch now, and he hoped Mulder hadn't drifted sideways underwater.

His lungs screamed at him, and he fought an urge to inhale. Instead, he kept breathing out as he descended. From the weight squeezing in on his head and chest, he knew he'd reached his limits, and he turned himself about. Kicking for the sky, he erupted out of the water halfway and choked as he sucked in air

Without pause, he hyperventilated and dove again. This time he angled away from the helicopter, kicking closer to the oil rig. The idea that those dark things might indeed swim scared him endlessly, but he couldn't leave a team mate behind. Mulder may not be military, but Meyers knew that the one promise America made was that you'd come home. Dead or alive, we bring ours home.

Meyers kicked, and kicked again, using his arms to steer. One outstretched hand hit something soft, and closed about some cloth. Meyer pulled the form to him, and kicked upward. The limp mass he dragged slowed him, and he wondered if he'd make it to the air again.

His chest cried out, and the pounding in his head started to fade. No, he thought. If I blackout, we're both dead in the water. Literally. Meyer stopped kicking, letting buoyancy drag him to the surface. He had to conserve whatever air he had left.

He felt as though he were accelerating through darkness, when suddenly the air and wind bit him like a lover. Gagging and choking, Meyer floated there for a moment, spitting up bile. Meyer thanked God, and started driving for the rig.

He held Mulder face up, his hand under the Agent's chin. This wasn't the most powerful stoke he could think of, but maybe Mulder was still alive . . . Meyer reached the helicopter, crying as the hands reached down to drag Fox into the freezing air. Then it was Meyer's turn, and he had not thought it could get any colder.

The helicopter swept up and away from the lonely, dark water and clawed for altitude with its wide blades. The jet engine hummed and sang and pushed Meyer fully awake. The water chilled him so deeply, he wanted to slip into sleep immediately.

Instead he focused on Dr. Scully, hunched over her partner on the helicopter's deck. He was starting to get used to the sight by now.

Dana pumped the last of the water out of Mulder, working his back and chest. Meyers flinched as he heard Fox's shoulder grind and pop under her hands. The SEALs rolled Mulder over onto his back, and Dana waved a shaking, wet hand at Quiddis. "Start a cardiac massage!"

Scully bent over him, and tilted his head back. She opened his mouth and moved his limp tongue to one side, pinching his cold nose shut, she started breathing in time with the Lieutenant's pressure on Mulder's chest.

Trying to force air into Mulder's huge lungs sucked all the wind from Dana's sails, and she started seeing spots as she gasped for air between puffs into his slack mouth. Quiddis pounded on Mulder's chest, and Scully covered Fox's mouth with her own again.

A pause, and she stopped to listen to Mulder's chest. His heart was beating again, the pacemaker reset by the rhythmic pounding. But he still wasn't breathing, and had gone cyanotic.

"Breathe damn you! Just one breath, Fox!" She resumed CPR, losing all track of time as she fought for him. Just forcing air past his cold lips, and panting for air herself. Let Quiddis force the air out, she had only to breathe.

Dana pulled back sharply, and slapped Mulder hard. Then again, wishing her hand left a red mark on his cold blue face. When it didn't, she returned to breathing for him. She blew again into his mouth, feeling his chest rise under her.

Then he gasped into her mouth, choking. Dana pulled back, cradling his head. Fox choked, and coughed up more salty seawater. He tried to reach out blindly, but couldn't move his freezing arms and legs.

Dana turned her face down toward her partner, holding him tightly while Quiddis wrapped blankets about him. Mulder shivered against her, and the beads of water dripping from her hair fell onto his lined face. After a few moments, Mulder glanced weakly up at Dana.

In the darkness, only the red light from the cockpit touched her, and he couldn't see the tear tracks for the water on her face. "Guess I'm back." He managed to croak it out through a throat so rough it clenched up at his words.

"You're back Mulder. And so am I." The SEALs turned aside, knowing that this was part of the team they were not privy to.

Mulder glanced up at Dana, fighting for words. He couldn't say a fraction of what he wished to, and it tore at him. As it always did. "Can't avoid a hospital this time, huh?"

"No." Scully had to smile, despite the keen pain. It was like him, to worry about that kind of triviality. "And I'm glad too."


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

Dana Scully crossed the open courtyard in front of the Hoover Building, forgoing her attache case for several hot brown paper bags. She nodded her thanks to the door guard who helped her navigate the heavy-framed doors without spilling coffee and eclairs on her teal suit.

The building's hallways were a pale maze, constructed at odd one-hundred and twenty degree angles. Half the time, you could see down two corridors long before you reached them, and half the time, you were guaranteed to run into someone coming around the sharp corners. This problem was true for even the veterans of the Building who had already learned not to lose themselves in the mess of labyrinthine corridors.

And so Agent Scully found herself swinging from side to side, ducking much taller Agents as she negotiated the corridors. Sometimes, it bothered her that she had to sidestep shortsighted people with alarming regularity. Sometimes, she was the one marching through the halls with her nose in a file, and she never noticed. But now it seemed almost fun, dancing left and right around obstructions like a football receiver. Or a SEAL.

The bullpen of junior agents was in good form today, but Scully didn't notice. She had an entirely different set of concerns on her mind this morning. She hustled down the dim stairwell toward the basement, almost certain of what she'd find there.

It took her long seconds of fumbling with the doorknob and her bags before Scully managed to open the dark door to Mulder's basement office. And sure enough, Fox was seated behind his desk looking up at the door, nonplussed. Dana knew she'd been scrabbling at the door long enough for him to have helped her had he been well. Slightly out of breath, Scully wore a tolerant grin as she glanced sideways at Fox's pale, drawn face.

"Decided to come in to work today." She couldn't quite manage to make a question out of it.

"No. I was abducted and forced to watch daytime soaps for weeks. The Grays just set me down here." Mulder smiled back, but settled into his leather armchair, repositioning his sling.

Scully dropped the bags on Mulder's desk, and started pulling out coffee cups and breakfast danishes. "I dropped by your apartment on the way here. Figured you didn't need to make your own breakfast one handed every day while you're out."

Mulder raised his eyebrows while he sipped his coffee. "Toast and eggs don't take a lot of work."

"Eat that eclair before I get to it." Scully dropped a croissant and a danish on her desk, avoiding the custard-filled pastry. She draped her jacket over the back of the seat, and settled in with her breakfast.

Mulder studied Dana while she was eating, noting that she wasn't leaning back in her chair. He took another drink, and tried to sound casual. "So, when's that military debriefing scheduled for?"

Dana set down her croissant and cleared her throat, buying time. "Last week."

Dana and Fox met one another's eyes across the office. Scully flushed lightly, and tried to read her partner's dark expression. Mulder looked aside for a moment, then down at his stiff and bound arm. He looked up at Scully, and grinned sadly.

"Well then, how did it go?" Dana thought that was a loaded question if ever she had heard one.

She sighed, and carried her coffee back over to his desk. Obviously he wanted to plow into work, and she perched alongside his desk to eye him better. He wouldn't like the news.

"Officially, we're getting commended for our work stopping a viral epidemic." Scully's clear blue eyes looked up from her light coffee into Mulder's face.

"What? A virus? Who are they kidding, Scully?" Mulder started to push himself out of his chair with his good arm, but dropped back into the seat immediately. "We've got a dozen witnesses of every rank in the military . . ."

Mulder slowed when he saw the look in Dana's face. He blinked slowly, then pushed his half eaten eclair across the desk toward a tottering pile of folders. "I haven't seen Quiddis or Meyer in a week."

"They've been reassigned. Paddy's in a VA hospital on Kuai. Recovering well, I'm told. Soun's doing a tour as an attache to the embassy in Switzerland, and Meyer is on detached duty with the UN."

"Quiddis?" Fox's mouth drew up into a long, thin line, his eyes tight.

"I can't even find a reference to him anywhere. His Commanding Officer sent him to Wood's Hole for training. The base commander there says he never showed up. According to payroll, he's drawing a check from Fort Bragg, if you can believe it. But no one has seen or head from him in ten days. It's almost as if-"

"He disappeared."

"Or was reassigned, doing classified work." Dana set down her coffee, not wanting to sit there holding it dumbly.

"And everything corroborates whatever story the Navy has concocted. Damn!" Mulder leaned back in his chair and blew out an exasperated breath. He used his left hand to rub the raw skin over his healing right shoulder.

Dana saw him working the sore bones and muscles, and opened her mouth to say something. But she stopped, watching Fox stare darkly at his files. Instead she pursed her lips, and waited.

"We were right there. We were right there." He tried to drum up the anger to pound his fist on the desktop, but dropped it limply instead. He deflated for a moment before catching his breath and turning to Dana.

"There's no reason for me to be here today. I'm going home."

Dr. Scully reached out, and laid a manicured hand on Mulder's long forearm. For a moment, it felt odd; the tailored cotton shirt was so much thinner than the rough workshirt he'd been wearing.

"Uh uh, Mulder. I need to start files on all the people involved here. And I have no idea where to start in all this." Dana waved at the file cabinets with her off hand, not removing the one from Fox's arm. "You start in on that, I'll do the report for Skinner."

Mulder nodded, and smiled. His hazel eyes smiled as well, and shared a knowing look with his partner. He picked up the eclair, and bit messily through it. Dragging an empty folder out of his desk, he licked away some of the custard from his lip.

Dana returned to her seat, and tapped her computer to life. While it started humming, winding up to speed, she looked back at Fox. He was already tearing through a yellow sheaf of notepaper, not in the least slowed by the necessity of writing left-hand. His brow was drawn up, and from the way he chewed his lip, she guessed he was deeply engrossed in his work already.

"What do you say we knock off to Michael's for lunch?" Fox's head snapped up, and it took a moment for him to drag the confusion from his face. "If I have to eat any more cafeteria food I'll die of Jello poisoning."

"Sure. It'll be a good break from the basement. Right?" Mulder smiled, his eyes a little apprehensive.

"Definitely. Nice to get a change of scenery." Dana made a pretense of logging in and entering her password. Surreptitiously, she watched Mulder bend himself to his papers.

He didn't seem nearly as intent as before.

The sand dunes rose darkly out of the water, the seagrasses blending them in with the surf and the night sky. The rolling gulf waters and the grasses blended together in the still night air to create a soft night music that was almost hypnotic. The pale sands were wet and darkened, and uncrossed by any tracks.

In this part of the world, the water is both god and devil. It pours out, spilling tons of soil and sand into the gulf. It builds bars, and flats, and all manner of land. But it also rolls in, and rips them apart. Year after year, sections of shoreline come and go, whipped by wind and water.

A tumbler rolled in out of the dark night, depositing its load of flotsam on the beach. A dark green bag spilled ashore, half buried by the flowing sands. The letters 'USN' were still visible above the sand.

As the next wave rolled in, a slick, gleaming figure staggered out of the water. Swaying slightly, it dropped to its knees, and pushed its bundle further up the sand.

In the dull glow of moonlight, a thin rivulet of blood trickled down its shattered chest, and burned the sand into glass where it struck. Its long, slick black head rolled back on hard narrow shoulders to scan the endless expanse of rolling dunes with an eyeless face. It hissed, saliva clinging to its long teeth.

It reached out a hand, the fingers cracked and broken. Pushing hard, it started to slide the egg up the beach. It hissed loudly as blood flowed from the wound across its featureless head. Despite the pain, it continued to push.

It only had to go so far.

The End.


End file.
